


Don't Touch Me I'm a Real Live Wire

by olivebranchesandredwine



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hannibal (TV) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Anesthesia, Arson, Blood and Gore, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dark, Dom/sub Undertones, Drunk Sex, Embedded Images, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, First Time Bottoming, Inspired by Dexter, Inspired by Hannibal, M/M, Medical Torture, Meet-Cute, Murder, Serial Killers, Surgery, murder boyfriends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:28:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23841529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivebranchesandredwine/pseuds/olivebranchesandredwine
Summary: You have to follow some kind of code, David.There were many reasons David Rose struggled with his family’s sudden reversal of fortune that landed him in Schitt’s Creek, but one tried his patience more than he could have imagined.The Code.Johnny’s words, first uttered all those years ago on the lanai of their Maui vacation home, were a nearly constant echo in his head from the moment his Rick Owen’s high-tops set foot on the dusty parking lot of the motel he was now forced to call home.You need to learn to control your impulses.You need to have a plan.You can’t be sloppy.You need to have a reason.--The serial killer AU nobody asked for. Imagine serial killers meeting in a small Canadian town, and they fall in love. Rated Explicit for gore and violence long before it gets remotely close to smutty. Mind the tags, folks. Additional warnings in chapter summaries and notes.
Relationships: David Rose & Johnny Rose, Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Patrick Brewer/Sebastien Raine, Sebastien Raine/David Rose, Stevie Budd & David Rose, Stevie Budd & Patrick Brewer
Comments: 177
Kudos: 108





	1. The Code of David Jonathan Rose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nervouscupcakeinspace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nervouscupcakeinspace/gifts).



> Fic title from the Talking Heads, "Psycho Killer." For cupcake, who asked for a serial killer AU last summer and inspired me to give this whole fan fiction thing a shot.

_You have to follow some kind of code, David._

There were many reasons David Rose struggled with his family’s sudden reversal of fortune that landed him in Schitt’s Creek, but one tried his patience more than he could have imagined.

The Code.

Johnny’s words, first uttered all those years ago on the lanai of their Maui vacation home, were a nearly constant echo in his head from the moment his Rick Owen’s high-tops set foot on the dusty parking lot of the motel he was now forced to call home.

_You need to learn to control your impulses._

_You need to have a plan._

_You can’t be sloppy._

_You need to have a reason._

David _had_ a reason for what happened that night. He just couldn’t share that reason with his father. Alexis had begged him to keep it from their parents. She didn’t want them to know what Stavros ( _how the fuck has she dated so many Stavros’s over the years?_ ) had made her do, how he had left her stranded on the top of a fucking volcano on _another fucking island_. Johnny didn’t know that David had needed to fly to Hilo in the middle of the night to rescue his teenage sister from a bad roll. On the molly he’d shared with her, which would fucking haunt his nightmares for years to come, plus whatever the fuck else that predatory boyfriend of hers had given her. It wasn’t the first time David had nursed her through a hard comedown, but this one terrified him. How could Stavros just _leave her,_ tweaked out and puking, clawing herself into a bloody goddamned mess, in a fucking port-a-john on top of a mountain?

Oh, he definitely had a _reason._

* * *

But, David had to admit, he’d certainly failed on the other three counts. Stavros (the first one, anyway) was definitely impulsive and unplanned. Sloppy.

Truth be told, David didn’t realize it was going to happen. He just got caught up in the moment.

When he confronted Stavros, he just...went feral, maybe. In that moment, he felt the maelstrom of emotions he normally kept at bay through a cocktail of prescription and illicit drugs that left him mostly numb, except for those moments fueled by the right combination of uppers and rough sex when he allowed himself some release. Not too much, and not too frequently...David needed the numbness _._ When he wasn’t numb, he felt too much, he _was_ too much. Numb was good. Numb was _safe._

Truth be told, David didn’t expect to enjoy it. If he stopped to think about it, David would probably struggle to remember a time in his life where he had actually _felt_ joy, and not the pale simulacrum provided by the fawning of paid hangers-on or of ecstasy-fueled orgasms. He certainly didn’t expect to feel it in that moment. To feel downright _giddy_ at the sensation of arterial blood spurting out of Stavros’s neck, splattering across his face, utterly _ruining_ his white Alexander McQueen boiler suit. He really should have worn that vinyl shorts thing to the club instead, he lamented in the moment. That boiler suit had been a favorite.

For one thing, David didn’t like messes. His loft, his galleries, his appearance? David needed tidiness and order, almost to the point of compulsion. His physical environment had to be _just so,_ or he couldn’t sit still. David liked to tell himself it was his meticulous eye, that it was because of his innate sense of what was correct. One of his shrinks (okay, more than one, if we’re being honest) said it was a response to the messiness he couldn’t control with his family. And as much as he hated to admit it, that made sense. He sought control wherever he could find it. Tidiness = control, order.

Plus, David kind of had a hang-up about blood. At least he _thought_ he did. He always got a little dizzy when he got blood tests; that time he’d had to pull the glass out of Alexis’ leg when she fell through the patio table. She was so young, and there was so much blood; but she didn’t want David to get sent away again and cried more about Moira and Johnny finding out that he’d fucked up than at her actual bloody leg. Thankfully, there hadn’t been that many gashes, and they weren’t really that big; just a lot of blood. David wanted to vomit as he cleaned his baby sister up, but somehow he managed to hold it together until she was asleep in her bed. And that’s when he puked and cried, sobbing as he held on to her purple leggings, torn and bloodied and ruined, until he passed out on the bathroom floor.

But for some reason, that didn’t happen in the moment with Stavros. Seeing, smelling the blood didn’t make him shaky at all. In fact, if anything, it had the opposite effect.

David really hadn’t _intended_ to hurt him when had gone down to meet Stavros. Had he? It was just to talk, to tell him to leave Alexis alone. Wasn’t it? It’s not his fault Stavros was still so fucked up he couldn’t walk straight; it’s not his fault that Stavros tripped and fell down, hard, on the jagged lava rock that oh-so artistically accented the landscape.

“Fuck!” Stavros yelled, shaking his hand, then bringing it closer to his face to inspect the damage. There was a cut, just over an inch long, on the heel of his right hand, and droplets of blood were starting to emerge, melding into a single, viscous red line along his palm.

At the sight of it, David had reached a trembling hand out, gently closing his fingers around the back of Stavros’ injured hand and pulling it closer. He inhaled deeply, feeling a heady rush as he took in the earthy, coppery scent of Stavros’ blood. Before he even realized what he was doing, David had taken a firmer hold of Stavros’ wrist with both hands and brought his tongue down to the other man’s palm. He’d traced the crimson line from wrist to the base of his thumb, relishing the metallic taste. They’d fooled around before, after all (I mean, who do you think introduced him to Alexis?), so it’s not like it was completely out of the blue. 

Confused by the competing sensations—sharp cut versus the surprise of David’s warm, wet tongue—Stavros stifled a moan, attempting to jerk his hand away from the other man. But David had tightened his grip, lifting his gaze to look Stavros directly in the eye, and pulled down until he heard a definite _crunch_ followed by Stavros’ shocked, incoherent scream. 

David remembered how Stavros had stood frozen in place, like a computer buffering from information overload, before shock transformed into a pain-fueled rage. He had yanked his injured hand away, moving to cradle it close to his chest, as he backed away, sputtering a litany of half-formed threats as he went. “What the fuck...you are fucking dead, Rose...I am going to—” His words broken off as he took note of the predatory grin blossoming across David’s face. Wordlessly, David had closed the short distance between them, smiling like the Cheshire Cat’s evil twin as he stalked his injured prey. 

Maybe he was distracted from the pain in his wrist and hand; maybe it was because he was so utterly horrified by the blank expression in David’s eyes, pupils blown so wide he looked like a shark about to feed. 

Whatever it was, Stavros didn’t notice the Thiers Issard Hook Nose straight razor (David’s second favorite) open in David’s hand until it was too late. 

And, okay, yes. That was intentional. Maybe he _did_ bring a sharp object to this little discussion.

And, okay, yes. Maybe he enjoyed the fuck out of slicing Stavros’ throat open with it. 

And holy fucking _yes_ did he enjoy the ever-loving _fuck_ out of watching the man who hurt his sister die. 

* * *

Money may not buy happiness, but there’s a whole lot more it can buy...such as the Very Best in discreet forensic cleaners. Unfortunately, that level of concierge service required more clout than just being the son of video store magnate Johnny Rose.

David Rose may bathe in the blood of his enemies, but he’s not going to clean it up afterward. And that meant that once David came down from his high—adrenaline, endorphins, whatever it was, better than anything he’d ever gotten from a pill or powder—he had to call for reinforcements. 

“Dad, I need help. Come to Maui,” the voicemail said. Although Johnny Rose preferred to parent from afar, throwing money at his children instead of having actual interactions, the simplicity of the message had apparently spurred him to move quickly. He was wheels down at Kahului within 6 hours of David’s call.

If David had stopped to really think about it, he might have wondered why his father seemed to know exactly what to do when he walked up to the crime scene, or why he seemed utterly unsurprised to see the exsanguinated body of Alexis’ boyfriend staring up at him. But by the time Johnny was there, walking around the mess David had made of their infinity pool, the rush of last night’s kill was over, and David was trying not to anxiety spiral. _Can you imagine this in prison?_ he thought to himself as he performed his morning skincare regimen.

“Son, we need to have a talk,” David heard his father’s voice echo from the hallway, “can you come down to the lanai?”

_You have to follow some kind of code, David._

_You need to learn to control your impulses._

_You need to have a plan._

_You can’t be sloppy._

_You need to have a reason._

David had been caught off-guard by how... _rational_ Johnny was about the whole situation. He wasn’t surprised or upset. Hs father barely raised his eyebrows throughout the whole discussion. Johnny Rose seemed to handle his son asking him to dispose of a body better than he’d handled the safe sex conversation (which consisted of him handing David a Power Rangers goody bag full of neon condoms).

David hadn’t gone into the Stavros situation expecting to become any kind of regular _thing_. But after that conversation with his father, he wondered if maybe there was something more he could be doing.

He would follow the Code.

And follow the Code, he did. Always methodical, precise, calculated...over the years he perfected a technique for setting up disposable kill rooms that allowed him to indulge in the messiness of the moment without leaving evidence behind. After that first night, David was always careful, always controlled his impulses. He would plot their demises over the course of weeks and multiple continents; he left no loose ends.

He chose his victims carefully: wealthy men (always men), the sort of men who used people and abused them and threw them away when they were done. Sometimes, they were the sort of men who swept Alexis off to parties two continents away and then vanished, leaving David to negotiate with captors, pirates, hostile governments. And on occasion, they were the sort of men who would fuck David raw in the dark and not acknowledge his existence the next day. They were always the sort of men who knew they could do whatever they wanted, to whomever they wanted, and just throw money at them to make problems go away. They were men who were, fundamentally, _incorrect._

David followed the Code.

* * *

When David found himself stuck without a paddle, so to speak, in Schitt’s Creek, things got messy. In those first excruciating weeks, he struggled more through withdrawal from the assorted pills and powders—some legitimately prescribed, most not; some legal; others not—that kept him from feeling too intensely, suffering from sudden sensory overload at just how relentlessly everything kept coming at him; the sky too bright, the sounds of small town life surprisingly cacophonous; Schitt’s Creek was overwhelming in a way that the bustle of New York had never been, thanks to the drugged out numbness he had always embraced so tightly.

That pharmacological armor shattered, David was forced to develop new coping strategies, new ways to exist in a world contracted into little more than a crossroads, a world where every interaction with these nondescript people was somehow still _too much_ ; where every interaction with these people reminded David that he was an outsider, that he would always be _too much_ for anyone to every truly see.

David needed a release. David needed to regain his equilibrium. He needed to feel the ecstasy of the warm blood dripping down his hands, the coppery scent invading every cell of his body; he needed to relish in that moment when time seems to stop, when the heartbeat stills, the rhythmic spurts settle down into nothing. But that wasn’t going to happen in Schitt’s Creek. It couldn’t. He promised Johnny. Small towns don’t make for easy hunting.

And so he found himself falling apart in Schitt’s Creek, overpowered by so many unfulfilled needs, with absolutely nothing left to himself that could even temporarily turn down the cacophony. With no outlet in sight, the darkness inside began to turn within, consuming him alive, and, short of some kind of murdery miracle, David was helpless to stop it.

More than anything, more than ever, in Schitt’s Creek David needed something to help him feel _right._


	2. A Deliberate Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To the average person, Patrick Brewer was a face in the crowd, an amiable, hard-working young professional on the fast-track to a life of middle-management anonymity. But underneath that everyman exterior, Patrick Brewer was a bona fide monster.
> 
> A well-organized, deliberate monster.

To the average person, Patrick Brewer was a face in the crowd, an amiable, hard-working young professional on the fast-track to a life of middle-management anonymity.

To the average person, Patrick Brewer was…well, just another average person. From the nondescript button-downs tucked into mid-range denim, to the close-cropped haircut that belied his thick curls, he carefully curated every detail of his persona to disappear into the crowd, to blend in to his surroundings.

 _Hide in plain sight, and you’ll never get caught._ And, oh, did he hide! Underneath that everyman exterior, Patrick Brewer was a bona fide monster.

A well-organized, deliberate monster.

Patrick liked to plan. He was a take charge guy, one who left absolutely nothing to chance. He planned his first kill in minute detail, sketching out its entire timeline down to thirty second increments, which he then plotted on an encrypted, color-coded Gantt chart. He practiced what he’d say, how he’d move; he mapped out contingencies for every conceivable obstacle he might face…and, if he were completely honest with himself, found himself a bit underwhelmed with the actual experience simply because everything had gone so _right._

* * *

Someone who wasn’t a monster might say that Parker Momund hadn’t deserved it. He was just your standard, garden-variety, fratboy dudebro. Popped collar and ball cap, more money than sense, a tendency toward casual misogyny, and a general disregard for pretty much anyone else. To most people, these wouldn’t be capital offenses. But, after all, Patrick wasn’t most people. Besides, the selfish asshole apparently missed the part of grade one where they taught everyone how to stay in the lines. He couldn’t park that obnoxious truck of his between the lines of a single parking space to save his own life. _Ha,_ Patrick had to laugh at that particular turn of phrase because, after all, _Parker certainly didn’t._ Maybe if he had, that fateful October day,Patrick would have acted differently.

But Parker didn’t, and—more importantly— _Patrick_ didn’t, so there was no need for further speculation. Parker had parked the F-250 across two parking spots, blocking off a goddamned disabled parking space, no less, so Patrick was left with no alternative but to proceed. It happened, just as he had planned, and it was…not bad. Kind of okay? Not the glorious rush he’d expected, but, then again, that had always been his experience. Nothing ever lived up to the expectation; there was always that let down when something he’d imagined for so long finally became reality. Sex. Murder. The dullness of reality never measured up to the bright swaths that colored hisimagination.

Although there was something to be said about the look in Parker’s eyes when he realized what was happening; that moment of recognition when smugness was replaced with blank terror as the hunting knife slid into his abdomen. Patrick had done his homework and knew that it didn’t hurt, _per se_ , as it slid into his flesh smooth as slicing butter. The blade was so sharp that it just surprised Parker, to see the blade disappear just beneath his solar plexus, to watch Patrick’s wolfish grin as he pushed it in to the hilt. Parker was so surprised that Patrick actually did it. _But what did he expect?_ Patrick still got irritated thinking back on the experience, _I literally told him what I was going to do to him._ Sometimes, the everyman mask was annoying.

Button-faces can be dangerous, too, dammit.

It was satisfying, Patrick had to admit, to remember how Parker went from “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Brewer?” to begging, “Please, I won’t say anything. Just let me go!” in a matter of seconds. When he realized that Patrick was, in fact, going to slice him the fuck open, going to twist the knife and and make it hurt. Just like he told Parker he would do.

Aside from missing that zing he’d hoped for, Parker had gone exactly as Patrick had expected. All his research had paid off; Patrick hit the abdominal aorta on his first try, twisting the knife before he pulled it out. Parker bled out in minutes, but he’d gone limp from shock in that first minute. Patrick had been grateful for that; he wasn’t so keen on the screaming. He vowed that any future victim would be gagged before he stabbed them. _If_ he stabbed them. Honestly, it wasn’t enough of a thrill to be worth the hassle.

After the letdown of Parker Momund, it took a while for the need to build back up, to make him want to bother trying again. Parker had just been such a disappointment, after all, that it left Patrick a bit moribund, honestly. If being there as someone took that dying breath—being the very _cause_ of it—couldn’t give him enough of a thrill, Patrick wondered, then what even was the point of living at all? Something was still missing, and he wasn’t quite sure how he would figure out exactly what it was.

Patrick brainstormed; he planned; he fantasized. Tried to find that missing piece, that certain something that would give him the _joie de vivre_ he’d always lacked. That something that would make him feel _right._

All the while, his dreams were painted in wide swaths of crimson, as he moved through his waking hours in a seeming monochromatic haze.

* * *

Dr. Frederick Chilton, associate professor of computer science at York University, disappeared without a trace shortly after administering the final exam for a graduate seminar on Principles of Human Perception and Performance in Human-Computer Interactions. His disappearance sparked little outrage among the student body, however, when the investigation uncovered evidence of years of professional misconduct and discriminatory grading practices targeting young women in his department.

Chilton’s was the second unsolved missing persons case York University within a handful ofyears, but authorities could find no connection between the two men or the circumstances surrounding their suspicious disappearances. Parker Momund and Frederick Chilton appeared to have no interaction or acquaintances in common. Both just happened to vanish into thin air, last seen on the Toronto campus where both worked.

In other words, Patrick’s second kill went as smoothly as his first, to his relief and partial dismay. Only this time, he’d used his body instead of the knife, whispering a litany of Chilton’s misdeeds into his ear as he choked him, naming his victims and reminding him of the people he’d destroyed.

There was something…something viscerally satisfying about the way Chilton’s trachea collapsed under the pressure of his forearm, how his face purpled, his eyes bulging in their sockets as he struggled to breathe. Patrick felt a jolt of adrenaline, a tiny moment of sheer pleasure, at how Chilton spasmed beneath him right at the end.

“This is for Rachel,” Patrick hissed as Chilton took his ragged final gasps, “Rachel Du Maurier.”

* * *

Unfortunately, Rachel had not appreciated his gift.

“What did you _do,_ Paddy _?_ ” She’d just stared down into the box like it was going to jump out at her or something. It’s not like he’d been so crass as to give her a body part or something. Patrick chuckled darkly at the memory of what he’d done with the body, thankful that he hadn’t gone with his original idea after all. Not when she reacted so poorly to what he _did_ offer her.

Chilton’s pocket watch.

And maybe it was a risky maneuver, keeping that little memento, but in the moment, he had felt it absolutely necessary. A way to show Rachel just how much she still meant to him, even after all these years. Even after they’d agreed they worked better as friends than as lovers. To show the lengths to which he would go to make her happy. He thought she’d be pleased.

Apparently, however, Rachel thought heartfelt declarations to kill for her should stay in the realm of metaphor.

“I don’t know you anymore; maybe I never knew you at all.” Rachel’s eyes had welled over with fresh tears as she shut the door, locking him out of their apartment with little more than a duffel bag and his guitar.

_No maybe about it, Brewer; it was risky and stupid, and you just barely escaped a lifetime in prison._

At least she still loved him enough to give him the chance to disappear.

Patrick Brewer, deliberate monster that he was, left Toronto on a rainy Tuesday night in June, with a full tank of gas and trunkful of his worldly possessions, and he drove west until his Sonata was running on fumes.

_Welcome to Schitt’s Creek. Where everyone fits in._


	3. Cool as a Cucumber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I said I need you to come with me to a cooking class….please?”  
> Stevie cocked her head slightly to the left and blinked, owlishly. “Why?”  
> David’s whole body was thrumming, the nervous energy of his anxiety threatening to explode in a wave of shrugging shoulders and fluttering hands and shaking head. “Because I really don’t want to get there and be forced to interact with Roland and I’m pretty sure he’s going to be there after I refused to be his yoga partner and I would really hate to kill him by accident!”  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> Murdery meet cute at Cooking with Class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time in Schitt's Creek has always been meaningless, and it's even more meaningless now, so consider this my hand wave.

“C’mon, Dave, what’s the difference? You’ve done it for Joss.” Roland Schitt slapped David firmly between his shoulder blades, and then _left his hand there_ as David quickened his pace, trying—in vain—to maneuver himself away without being too obvious about it. Offering up a silent apology to the Valentino mohair soiled by Roland’s hand, David made a note to move up his next trip to the dry cleaner in Elmdale.

Time to try a different tactic. David stopped suddenly, awkwardly ducking away from Roland’s hand as he gave the ridiculous man a look of wide-eyed incredulity. “That was _different_ ,” he stammered. “And was under strict orders from a _doctor._ ”

“But Ted’s a vet.”

David felt his emotions fluttering, an almost frantic vibration of frustration tearing across his face before shooting down his arms and out through a frenzied wave of his hands. “Same difference,” he said, as blithely as he could manage.

“ _You_ need a partner; _I_ need a partner; we’re a match made in yoga heaven. Whaddya say?” Roland cleared his throat and spat onto the sidewalk, and then winked at him; he fucking _winked_ and it was so beyond incorrect that David had to bite the inside of his cheek until it bled to maintain some semblance of calm.

“My answer,” David replied, his voice slightly strangled, “is still _no._ Even if I actually wanted to, I couldn’t. I have a previous engagement.”

“A previous engagement?” Roland peered at him, eyes dubious beneath the faded brim of his hat. “D’ya think I was born yesterday, Davey?” The ubiquitous goofy Schitt smile dissolved into something somber, a tense, quivering clench visible beneath the scraggly beard. David watched in horror as Roland kicked a dirt-smudged boot against a patch of similarly scraggly weeds growing up between the cracks of the sidewalk, the force of it enough to send a spray of dirt shooting into the air. He grimaced as some of it made contact with his bare shin and with the Rick Owens hightop.

“Look, I’ve got a….a _thing_ I’m doing on Tuesday nights,” David repeated, confused at his own sudden insistence to—what, protect Roland Schitt’s feelings? Was that actually happening? He looked around, eyes darting anxiously, and landed on the community announcement board he could see through the cafe window. “A cooking class…it’s starting this week.” Roland continued to eye him suspiciously, but his jaw had begun to unclench. “I saw the flyer at the cafe. See for yourself.” David nodded in the direction of Cafe Tropical.

“I think I will.” Roland narrowed his eyes a final time, sizing David up, and then clapped him on the back again. “Maybe I’ll see ya there.” He turned and headed for the cafe, leaving David staring after him, only _moderately_ dazed and confused about the whole encounter.

* * *

“You want me to do _what?“_ Stevie stood there, completely still, as she stared up at him, that doe-eyed gaze wide and suspicious. David sighed, forcing his shoulders down from his ears as he rolled his eyes. Dropping his head back, he frowned up at the water-stained ceiling. “I said I need you to come with me to a cooking class….please?”

Still disarmingly unmoving, she continued to watch him, as though she were looking through his skull and into the contents of the tiny wardrobe behind him. Finally, she cocked her head slightly to the left and blinked, owlishly. “Why?”

David’s whole body was thrumming, the nervous energy of his anxiety threatening to explode in a wave of shrugging shoulders and fluttering hands and shaking head. “Because I really don’t want to get there and be forced to interact with Roland and I’m pretty sure he’s going to be there after I refused to be his yoga partner and I would really hate to kill him by accident!”

 _Fuck._ Horrified, David snapped his mouth shut, one perfectly manicured hand flying to cover it, as though that would somehow pull the words back in. He tried—and quite frankly, _failed—_ to rein in his face as he stood there, bewildered and anxious, his chest heaving, the silence thick and stifling between them.

Waiting.

Watching.

Worrying.

“ _Where’s the gun?”_ David startled at Stevie's barked laugh, losing his balance when he jumpily tried to look over his shoulder. As he landed in a nervous heap on the musty old carpet (which, _gross)_ Stevie collapsed, doubling over in a fit of giggles.

“Oh my _god_ , David,” she gasped, dropping down and actually rolling onto her back, careless of the long strands of hair covering her face. “That is fucking _priceless._ ”

Well, now, _that_ was unexpected, so much so that David forgot he was making contact with the disgusting motel carpet. For long moments, he sat there, letting his second favorite pair of Neil Barrett jeans make contact with god knows how many parasites nesting in that godawful foot-trampled brown shag, just watching his best friend flailing around like she was high. Cackling…at what? The concept of him killing Roland? _Rude._

His voice dripping with all the disdain he could muster, he asked, “What, you don’t think I could kill Roland by accident?”

“By accident…on purpose,” Stevie chuckled, peering at him through a tangle of dark hair now covering her eyes, “doesn’t matter. David Rose, terrified of moths and dirt, cold blooded killer.” She snorted the last bit, and seriously? _Rude._

“I’ll have you know that I could—” David paused, mid-sentence, as he realized what he was about to say.

_Remember the Code._

David twisted his mouth to the side in a half-smirk, and shook his head. “See? That’s why I need you to come to class with me. Someone has to handle the wet work.”

Stevie gradually settled into stillness as her laughter subsided, but her eyes were still twinkling with mirth. “Alright. But it’ll cost you.”

“Deal.”

The glint of smooth metal under the unforgiving fluorescents sent patterns of light dancing onto the walls and ceiling. Something about the way the cold metal moved, slicing through resistance like it was nothing…the gleam of it, the fucking _artistry_ of it. It was mesmerizing.

Patrick stood dumbstruck, mouth gaping in wonder as he watched the tall man wield the knife like one of the Old Masters would wield a paint brush. Dressed head to toe in black, thick dark hair reaching for the ceiling, nimble fingers wrapped around the hilt with an airy lightness that seemed better suited for…what? That wand shop in the Harry Potter movies Rachel had made him watch so many times when they were kids.

Yes, the man definitely looked like some sort of knife wizard. Patrick’s tongue felt heavy in his throat, nervous energy tugging deep inside his gut as he approached the tall, dark, and _very_ handsome, knife-wielding stranger.

 _Fuck._ He swallowed thickly, struggled to find a way to speak. He knew he had a finite window of opportunity to convince the man to give him what he wanted before everything went south, fast. _Why’s he have to be so hot? I’m gonna die._

“Ex—, I—um…excuse me,” he began, stuttering just a bit as he cleared his throat, “w-would…I mean, uh…could I have…um, would you mind sharing your cucumber?”

* * *

In retrospect, it would’ve been more productive if he’d just brought his work with him and had lunch here. He was hoping to make a good impression on his new boss, though, tackling that stack of permit applications before the afternoon rush, so he’d decided to order takeout and eat at his desk instead.

Patrick had already been waiting twice as long as the spacey waitress told him his reuben would take to prepare. He’d already read every single flyer posted on the community bulletin board--Learn to Decoupage, DIY Erotic Pottery, Couple’s Yoga, auditions for the Schitt Show Annual Talent Festival—and even taken down the information from a couple of promising ones (Elm County Softball league signups and a cooking class). Now, he turned his attention to the paper placement in front of him on the counter. Moving methodically, clockwise starting in the upper left corner, he read every single ad square, then reversed his pattern and read them all again. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

_Real Deal Real Estate.  
Engaging Moments Photography.  
Up the Creek and Beyond Travel.  
Ray’s Storage Solutions.  
Move It or Lose It Movers.  
Butani’s Business Builders.  
Ray’s X-mas Trees and More. _

Patrick couldn’t help but chuckle, noticing that more than a third of the businesses on the mat shared the same phone number: 555-0144. As the newest (and only) employee of Butani’s Business Builders, Patrick had been aware of four of the seven advertised. Just how many companies did Ray have? For that matter, how could he afford all that advertising?

Something drew his attention to the bottom right corner of the mat. Printed by Butani’s Marketing Solutions. _Ah._

“Reuben for Brewer?” Spacey waitress emerged from the kitchen with a plastic bag in hand and a beatific smile on her face. Wild, curly tendrils escaped from her ponytail, framing a bright face dusted with freckles. She was pretty, Patrick thought, appraising her with the same objectivity one would use walking through the AGO.

He slipped off the stool and walked to the register. “That’s me—”

“Hey Twyla,” boomed a loud voice from across the floor, “can you get me a couple of banana nut muffins to go?”

For a moment, the serene smile faltered, and the waitress’s—Twyla’s—eyes darkened, her brows knit together in what could only be described as perky irritation. “Sorry,” she mouthed before turning to the pastry display case behind her. “Will that be all, Mayor Schitt?”

“Yup,” said the owner of the loud voice, an unkempt man with a scruffy beard and a tangle of rough, straw-colored hair underneath a dirty trucker hat. “No, wait. Gimme a large coffee, black with six sugars, and an order of poutine.”

 _Mayor?_ Patrick clenched his jaw in disbelief as this man just steamrolled right past him to lean against the cash register. “Excuse me,” Patrick gritted out, “but I was in the middle of pa—”

“Don’t worry about it, pal.” Trucker hat mayor clapped him on the back, and the sudden influx of copper tang made Patrick realize he’d bitten straight through the soft flesh inside his cheek. “I won’t hold it against you.” Then the obnoxious man turned back toward the counter, where he continued making conversation with the obviously uncomfortable waitress.

_So. Fucking. Rude._

Roland Schitt, major of Schitt’s Creek, laid out on a cold metal table, unable to move, unable to speak, eyes forced open in their sockets…maybe even some good old Ludwig Van to accompany his screams. How long could he draw it out? How many shallow cuts before the man passed out?

Patrick’s lips curled into a predatory snarl of a smile, his eyes glassy and unfocused as he played through the scenario a hundred different ways. _Soon._

Another touch, this time a playful punch to his shoulder. “Anyway, thanks for the cuts, pal, I appreciate it. And, by the way, welcome to town! Joss and I would love to have you over for dinner real soon. How d’ya feel about cheese?”

Patrick blinked a few times, shook off the daydream. “Um…uh, wha—I…I mean…cheese is great, thank you. By the way, my name’s Pa—”

“Oh yeah, Paddy, I know who you are. Kinda my job to know what’s going on around here. Name’s Roland. Roland Schitt. I’m the mayor of this little slice of heaven.” Roland offered his hand, and Patrick shook it firmly.

“Nice to meet you, Roland.”

Patrick hoped that Roland didn’t notice the clench of his jaw. Hoped that no one else could see the tension roiling through his whole body. That itch was coming back. And, Patrick realized, Schitt’s Creek—where everyone fits in—was about the worst possible place to scratch it.

He needed a distraction.

* * *

The beautiful man didn't acknowledge him. For what felt like painfully long minutes— _painfully_ long minutes—Patrick stood there, mouth gaping, as the man fucking _shaved_ slices of cucumber so thin they started to curl into ribbons. Imagining other possibilities for that precise artistry, he felt his eyes glaze over as he watched, utterly transfixed by those beautiful, skillful hands.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were talking to me.”

 _Hmmm?_ The man had stilled his hands, but it took Patrick’s rational mind a few moments to process that new information.Four shiny silver bands encircled the fingers of the hand holding the knife, and a dusting of dark hair spread across the back, up to his wrist and arm. Patrick wished he could see the man’s forearm flexing as he moved. _Did someone say something?_ Something moved into his line of sight; it was…the man’s other hand. Oh _shit._

“Unless…um, were you _not_ talking to me?” Tall, dark, and beautiful peered at him curiously, his brows slightly furrowed. He set the knife down and turned to face Patrick, leaning a hip against the counter and cocking his head to the side.

He quirked an eyebrow and shot a half-smirk toward Patrick. “Whatever you’re on? Are you gonna share?” There was a teasing lilt to that breathy voice now, and it made Patrick heat up from inside out, burning his skin as the flush spread across his cheeks to the tops of his ears.

“Ss-s-sorry,” Patrick scrubbed a sweaty palm against the short hair at his nape, “I was just…um…admiring you cucumber slices. You certainly know your way around a knife.”

That half-smirk spread wider across the man’s face, his eyes crinkling at the corners as it reached them. “Thanks so much,” he preened at the compliment, making this ridiculously adorable shimmy with his whole body, and Patrick desperately wanted to make that happen again and again.

“By the way, my name’s Patrick Brewer,” a shy smile toyed at his lips as he extended his hand, “and I was asking if you’d be willing to share your cucumber.”

The broad hand that took hold of his was softer than Patrick could imagine, the grip firm, like a vise wrapped in silk. “Nice to meet you, Patrick. I’m David. David Rose. And I’d be happy to share my cucumber with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that future chapters will be decidedly more gory, so if that's not your thing, you can stop at the end of this one. 
> 
> Thanks to my hair petters, cheerleaders, and gory murder crack enablers. You know who you are. 
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://marketplacehearteater.tumblr.com).


	4. Hold the Cheese

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night David met Patrick Brewer, he dreamt in color. For the first time in years, for the first time since landing in this smelly armpit of a town, his dreams were vibrant, glorious technicolor painting over the dulled sepia of his monotonous, monochrome existence. Swaths of red spattered across variegated shades of blue until it all melted into a bubbling roil of aubergine so exquisite he wanted to weep. And to think, he’d been ready to show Stevie the inside of his kill room when she bailed.
> 
> * * *
> 
> David and Patrick flirt and make cheese.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, hello, it's Olive, here to let you all know that I am full of shit. You know how I said in the notes last chapter that things would be gory from here on out? Apparently, Patrick and David didn't agree with me. Oops. Also, the reason this chapter is posting early is because what had been a single chapter is now two. So you get this one early.

The night David met Patrick Brewer, he dreamt in color. For the first time in years, for the first time since landing in this smelly armpit of a town, his dreams were vibrant, glorious technicolor painting over the dulled sepia of his monotonous, monochrome existence. Swaths of red spattered across variegated shades of blue until it all melted into a bubbling roil of aubergine so exquisite he wanted to weep.

And to think, he’d been ready to show Stevie the inside of his kill room when she bailed.

* * *

“Welcome to Cooking with Class, everyone! For the…what, two of you who _don’t_ know me already,” the woman at the front of the room paused until the titters from the other students settled back into silence, “I’m Gwen, and I’ll be your instructor for the next month.”

With Stevie’s betrayal-by-text message weighing heavily on his shoulders, David resisted the urge to scan the room in search of the other outsider. The last thing he wanted right now was to connect with anyone else in this godforsaken town. Instead, he concentrated on the teacher— _what had she said her name was? Pam?—_ and set about taking notes in his moleskin journal.

  * 4 courses over 4 weeks
  * Ingredient lists provided for subsequent classes
  * Let Pam know of any food sensitivities or allergies



Everything seemed straight-forward enough. After all, if he could manage to produce edible enchiladas with the “help” of Television’s Moira Rose, David felt confident he could manage whatever this beginner’s cooking class had to offer.

The last thing David Rose expected to find at a fucking provincial community center cooking class was goddamn _crush_ on an earnest, button-faced man with an ass that made midrange denim look good.

Patrick. Motherfucking. Brewer.

* * *

“Do you mind if I work with you?”

The corners of his mouth were curving up, unbidden, just at the sound of Patrick’s voice.

David Rose does _not_ smile like a lovesick child, at least not anymore. He’d learned that the hard way after one too many unflattering appearances on TMZ and Page 6. So when he felt that giddy smile threatening to explode across his face, David fought it, pursed his lips and smooshed them to the left as hard as he could.

Once he felt like he had his face under a bit more control, David dared a glance over to where Patrick had taken the seat next to him. He was dressed in the same pair of dark-wash Levi’s as last week, a slightly different shade of pale blue Oxford tucked in neatly and secured with a braided brown leather belt. Everything about the whole ensemble screamed bland and boring—the sort of casual Friday attire an accountant would wear to work and then out for beers with his buddies at a sporting pub—but Patrick somehow made it work.

It was infuriating, really. The way the Oxford shirt stretched taut across the planes of his upper back, the flex of his forearms made too damn visible by how he’d rolled up his sleeves. God, it was hot and what the fuck was even happening that David Rose was finding himself _attracted_ to the poster boy for Straight Guys Weekly?

“Hi, Patrick.” David did not greet his new, probably definitely not at all interested in _him_ , friend with his husky seductive voice, he did _not_.

“Hey.” And Patrick absolutely did _not_ look fucking edible as he looked at David with that soft, private smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Not at all. “So, are you ready for our cheese course tonight, David?”

David just pursed his lips together and nodded, because he really wanted to flirt or maybe reach over and kiss Patrick a little, and that would be inadvisably incorrect in the middle of a fucking cooking class.

“Hello, Patrick! I’m almost running late for a meeting with the Town Council, but I wanted to make sure that I saw you before I headed out.” Ray accosted him as soon as he walked through the door, clapping his hands together in delight like Patrick’s arrival was somehow worthy of applause. He was smiling, but then again, as Patrick had quickly learned in his first days in Schitt’s Creek, Ray was _always_ smiling.

“Hi, Ray,” Patrick began, carefully maneuvering around his boss when he realized that Ray wasn’t going to move. “Sorry that took longer than I’d planned for, but there was a bit of a hold up at the cafe.”

Ray continued to stand there, smiling expectantly at him.

“Is there something I can do for you, Ray?” Patrick blinked, willing away the scowl threatening to take over his face, and tried his best to swallow the edge of frustration in his voice.

“I just wanted to remind you that your contract entitles you to a lunch hour of exactly thirty-five minutes, and you left the office exactly forty-one minutes ago.” The bastard was still just _smiling_ at him. “So I expect that you’ll of course make up the lost time before clocking out this evening.”

“Was planning on it already, Ray,” Patrick gritted out.

“Excellent.” Attempting to ignore the grumbling in his stomach for just a few minutes more, Patrick heaved a sigh of relief when Ray opened the door,but clearly the universe was out to get him. Ray stopped, hand on the knob and door half-opened, still with the goddamn _smiling_. It was creepy. “Just remember, no eating in front of clients; we wouldn’t want to be unprofessional.”

“Of course,” he answered. “I’ll eat fast.”

“Alright, then. I’ll be on my way.” Ray made it just past the threshold before stopping to call over his shoulder. “Patrick, your 1:00 is here!”

Patrick grumpily shoved the corner of his now-cold reuben into his mouth and bit off as much as he could manage. Eyeing his lunch with regret, he awkwardly swallowed down that single bite of rebellion, and chased it with some water.

_Killing his boss who also happened to be his landlord/roommate would be an unsound business practice._

“Mr. Nelson?” Patrick plastered an affably average smile across his face and went to greet the man in the foyer. “Welcome to Butani’s Business Builders. I’m Patrick.”

* * *

There was just _something_ about David Rose. Something different. Something special.

When Patrick walked into the rec center kitchen the second night of class, he felt a flutter deep in his gut at the prospect of seeing David again. It was…surreal, really, when he thought about it. The last time he’d experienced anything remotely similar was the night he lay in wait for Dr. Chilton. And he certainly didn’t want to kill David Rose. Did he? Patrick didn’t _think_ he did.

But then again, he had been getting that urge lately, even though it hadn’t even been that long since Chilton. There was just…there was just something about Schitt’s Creek, maybe. Or maybe he was itchy at how he left things with Rachel. She _knew_ now, for god’s sake, knew what was hiding beneath the mask. Patrick certainly didn’t want to kill _her_ , even if it was in his best interest to do so. Roland Schitt, on the other hand? Now that was a missing persons case just begging to happen.

 _If only…_ goddamn small towns. It would be beyond impossible to off a Schitt’s Creek resident without garnering suspicion, no matter how impeccable his plans were.

_Lock it up, Brewer. Lock it up._

David was sitting at the same workspace as before, in the front corner of the room, and scribbling furiously in a small, leather-bound journal. Those wild eyebrows knit together in concentration, the tip of his tongue peeking out from the corner of those lush lips. Patrick blinked a couple times as he felt his cheeks flush. Then he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, swaying his hips just a little, to adjust things in his pants. Completely normal, everyday junk adjustment that had nothing to do with the sight of that pink tongue.

Patrick took a deep breath, and started to walk toward the empty seat next to David. God, his hands were shaking. Why were his hands shaking? He shoved them into his pockets and willed his feet to keep moving until he was standing next to the most gorgeous person he’d ever shared a room with, still completely oblivious to his presence.

He cleared his throat, and then asked, “Do you mind if I work with you?”

“Alright, does everyone have the rennet and citric acid solutions prepared?” The, short and rather forgettable grey-haired teacher— _why was he still blanking on her name?—_ brushed past David on her way back to the front of the class. Satisfied that everyone was ready to proceed, she continued. “Now set the burner to medium-high so that it can start heating up while you’re working on the next step.” Patrick turned the dial on the hot plate to the appropriate setting, while David read the next part of the recipe aloud.

“Okay, so now we need to pour the milk into the pot.” Patrick picked up the container of milk and poured it in, punctuating its final slug with a “Check.”

“Next up, stir in the citric acid solution,” David continued, “do you want to stir or pour?” Patrick grabbed a wooden spoon and wiggled it at David, who absolutely did _not_ imagine how it would feel smacking against his ass. Repeatedly. David gazed down at the milk in the pot, hoping like hell the heat in his cheeks wasn’t painting them as deep a crimson as they felt. Patrick then began to stir the milk as David added the solution. “Check,” Patrick said, grinning.

“Set the pot over medium-high heat and warm to 33°C, stirring gently.” Patrick moved the pot to the reddened coils of the burner. While he stirred, David reached across him for the thermometer. If his forearm happened to brush against Patrick’s bicep as he did? _Well_. Accidents happen.

As they worked through the next few steps of the recipe, David found it increasingly difficult to focus on what…Pam— _that was her name, right?_ —was saying to the class. Instead, he found his attention lingering on Patrick’s hands as he stirred, then as he cut through the new-formed curds. Talking to Patrick was…it was _easy_ and comfortable, in a way that was utterly foreign to him. Even with Stevie, there had been that initial awkwardness, a distance ultimately broached only by the addition of copious amounts of booze and weed.

But _Patrick_. Somehow, his stories about community theater performances and playing the hockey and working with contracts and taxes and other business-type things weren’t making him want to roll his eyes. No, David found these prosaic mundanities _charming_ , wanted to hear more. Wanted to watch Patrick’s eyes crinkle in delight as he told sports jokes David didn’t quite understand. Yes, he realized, Patrick was _laughing_ at things that David said, but it wasn’t mean-spirited like the ghosts of his former life. No, Patrick was laughing at David’s absurdities with a warmth that made David want to join in, because they were making the joke together.

_God, he’s pretty._

They’d spent less than four hours together, and David was already falling hard. For a kind-hearted, business casual man more likely to end up married to Twyla and coaching Schitt’s Creek Little League than to actually take an interest in him. The thought left him feeling hollow, and David found himself already retreating inward, preemptively steeling himself to lose someone he never actually _had._

Lost somewhere in the beginnings of a depressive spiral, David was watching the microwave like a hawk, so laser-focused on the numbers counting down that he startled at Patrick’s voice at his ear.

“—if you’d like, I mean. We could do it together?” _Fuck._ Thankfully, Patrick couldn’t see him as his face traveled through myriad emotions before landing on what he hoped was calm, detached friendliness.

“I’m sorry, I was a little spaced out. What was that?”

Rubbing his palm across the back of his head, Patrick chuckled. “I asked if you’d like to go to Elmdale this weekend to get the ingredients for next class. You know…with me?”

David’s heart jumped a little at the question, to be honest. _Is he asking me out?_ He had to bite his tongue to choke back the bitter laugh. _Yeah, right,_ he chastised himself. _And after you finish shopping he’ll tell you he’s got a thing for psycho killers who moodboard blood samples of their victims._

No, Patrick wasn’t asking him out. He was just…being a good bro, probably. That was probably a thing Patrick did with friends. Just bros being bros.

David shook his head, “that’s okay. I think I’ll be able to manage on my own.”

If Patrick looked a little deflated as he pulled on his rubber gloves and prepared to knead the cheese globs? David tried not to notice, tried not to feel that painful tug at his chest.

It was when he went to get his own rubber gloves from his bag that David saw the notifications on his phone. Eight missed calls from Alexis. _Shit._ He felt a sudden, familiar drop in his gut, long absent in their time of small town exile. His heart thundering deep in his chest, David grabbed the phone to check the notifications.

_She’s okay. She’s got to be okay; it’s not like she could have gone anywhere._

Only vaguely aware of Patrick’s voice saying…something, David didn’t know and couldn’t care in the moment, he played the first voicemail.

His vision went red at the edges in the same moment that he heaved a ragged sigh of relief at the sound of Alexis’ voice. _She’s okay,_ he reminded himself, _she’s okay._ His mom, however? That remained to be seen.

Sebastien. Motherfucking. Raine.

Once he got past the initial intimidation of talking to a Greek god made human, talking to David was easy. So many of his stories were…moderately concerning, to say the least, and too frequently ended with a stint in rehab or someone being ransomed or getting their stomach pumped, but David told them with the same bland matter-of-factness Patrick’s dad would use to describe actuarial tables. Death-defying feats of international negotiations? David didn’t bat an eye. But get him talking about the fashion faux-pas of some D-list celebrity, and David turned his tirade into adance, hands waving about conducting some invisible symphony as he conveyed a thousand emotions at once on that beautiful, stubbled face.

It was charming. _David_ was charming. Patrick was utterly charmed.

As they worked together, stirring and cutting and simmering and cooking, Patrick felt more relaxed than he had in weeks. Years, maybe. It was…it was just so _natural_ talking to David, teasing and being teased right back, and they made a pretty good team, if the cheese-making was any indication.

And when David’s arm brushed against his?

 _Holy shit._ He liked David. _Liked_ him. Patrick was downright giddy with the realization. Of _course_ he didn’t want to kill David; he wanted to…well, let’s start with kissing. Had it really been so long since anyone had caught his interest that he forgot what it felt like to _want_ someone?

Patrick definitely wanted David.

* * *

…if only David wanted him back. He probably should’ve backed off when he realized David was zoning out. He definitely should’ve changed the subject when David asked him to repeat the question, for fuck’s sake.

_How in the hell could someone that breathtaking be in to a guy like me?_

Patrick turned back to the microwave to collect the curds—and okay, yes, to lick his wounds away from the watchful eye of David Rose. He tried to focus on the task at hand, sprinkling salt over the warmed lump on his board and then pressing gloved fingers into the cheese to incorporate it.

Behind him, David gasped, then muttered incoherently beneath his breath.

“David,” Patrick began, “is everything okay?” He looked over his shoulder to see David staring at his phone, ashen-faced, hands trembling. “David, what’s wrong? David?”

With his hands still buried in a glob of almost-cheese, Patrick watched David dash from the room.

_That went well._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to make your own mozzarella like David and Patrick? This is the [recipe](https://www.thekitchn.com/how-to-make-homemade-mozzarella-cooking-lessons-from-the-kitchn-174355) they use. 
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos and comments, I am so pleased that there is a devoted following for this little gory murder crack about falling in love.
> 
> And a big thank you to the lovely [TINN](https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_is_not_nothing/pseuds/this_is_not_nothing) for giving me the idea for the mozzarella, and for David's impure thoughts about [what else Patrick could do with that wooden spoon.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21508372) Go read it now, thank me later.


	5. Sebastien Raine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I want you to know that I care about what happened between you and me. And while my therapist said I should never feel sorrow, I do appreciate your pain.”
> 
> Did I really used to find this bullshit charming? David pushed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, concentrating on the effort of it, as he struggled to maintain his poker face. The less he said, the better.
> 
> “Okay.” Disbelief clung to that single word like glue, but this was Sebastien, after all. It’s not like he actually paid attention to what David ever said, anyway.
> 
> “And I want to explore that,” Sebastien lowered his voice, “Maybe even physically.” Slow and deliberate, Sebastien moved around him like a shark circling its injured prey.
> 
> “Ohh,” God, David felt a tinge of arousal at the base of his spine as Sebastien squeezed his arm and leaned in close, why does that still do things to me? “well... I shouldn’t.” Am I really doing this?
> 
> “Oh you should,” Like the proverbial devil on his shoulder, Sebastien growled behind him, his breath a hot tease against David’s neck, his fingers on David’s shoulder sending jolts of electricity down his spine.
> 
> \--
> 
> David deals with the fallout of Sebastien's visit to Schitt's Creek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guess what! This chapter exploded like the last one, and I've divided it into two. You get the smaller one (David's POV) today, and the longer one tomorrow.

“I want you to know that I care about what happened between you and me. And while my therapist said I should never feel sorrow, I do appreciate your pain.”

 _Did I really used to find this bullshit charming?_ David pushed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, concentrating on the effort of it, as he struggled to maintain his poker face. The less he said, the better.

“Okay.” Disbelief clung to that single word like glue, but this was Sebastien, after all. It’s not like he actually paid attention to what David ever said, anyway.

“And I want to explore that,” Sebastien lowered his voice, “Maybe even physically.” Slow and deliberate, Sebastien moved around him like a shark circling its injured prey.

“Ohh,” _God,_ David felt a tinge of arousal at the base of his spine as Sebastien squeezed his arm and leaned in close, _why does that still do things to me?_ “well... I shouldn’t.” _Am I really doing this?_

“Oh you should,” Like the proverbial devil on his shoulder, Sebastien growled behind him, his breath a hot tease against David’s neck, his fingers on David’s shoulder sending jolts of electricity down his spine.

”Okay fine. But, um…I can't stay.” And then Sebastien’s mouth was on him, hot and wet, teeth grazing along the back of his neck to settle at the juncture where it met David’s shoulder. When he bit down, David shuddered, instinctively leaning his head away to offer up more of himself for Sebastien to mark, to claim. Sebastien tightened his grip on David’s arm, snaked his free arm around David’s waist and pulled him back until David was flush against him, could feel the beginnings of Sebastien’s erection pressing against his ass. David pushed his hips back against him, pleased with the grunt it pulled from deep in Sebastien’s chest.

“I’ve missed this, David,” Sebastien slid his hand down and pressed his palm against David’s crotch. David’s hips rocked of their own volition, forward into the pressure of Sebastien’s hand then back to the hard line of Sebastien’s cock teasing the cleft of his ass. He bit back a whimper, his eyes fluttering shut as he dropped his head back to rest against Sebastien’s shoulder. _It’s been so long_ , _so goddamn long_. He could feel the groan threatening to rumble from his chest as he felt Sebastien’s fingernails digging into his shoulder—he always did have a thing for a little bit of pain with his pleasure, and nobody knew that better than master sadist Sebastien—and _holy fuck this dickbag is totally damaging the leather._ David shrugged out of Sebastien’s grasp and turned to face him.

“Not like this,” David purred, leaning in and dragging his tongue up the column of Sebastien’s neck, “not tonight.” He took Sebastien’s earlobe between his teeth and bit down until Sebastien gasped, then soothed the sting with his tongue. “You’re mine tonight.”

David backed away, his lips smashing to the left in a satisfied smirk when Sebastien stumbled at the loss, and then walked to the dinette table. He removed his jacket and draped it over the back ofa rickety chair. “Take off your clothes, Sebastien.”

* * *

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t think about it. It had been so fucking _long_ since he had been able to scratch that itch. All those years of longing, of holding back, of following the Code, and now this. Fate offering up 175 pounds of _incorrect_ , gift-wrapped in Isabel Marant, his for the taking. And holy fucking god, had David wanted to _take._

The sex had been good…well, much better than _good_ , but then again, that had never been the problem with Sebastien. It was the part right after where things tended to get messy for them. For David, at least, since he was the one tasked with dealing with the mess.

The physical ones were easy.

Sebastien didn’t stir when David got out of bed. As he pulled his underwear on, David glared at him, still fucked-out and snoring, sprawled across the mattress like he goddamn owned it. For an all-too fleeting moment, he lost himself in the fantasy of it. Of taking Sebastien to the honeymoon suite and binding him to the bed with those godawful pink fuzzy cuffs hidden under the headboard. Of shoving Sebastien’s old favorite butterfly gag — _why the fuck did I even keep that one?_ —into _his_ mouth for a change. Of watching Sebastien’s face when he starts to flay him alive.

_Let’s see what your inner self looks like, Sebastien._

A bitter laugh escaped him before David could even think to stop it. He slapped his hand in front of his mouth as though to push it back down his throat, but it was unnecessary. Sebastien snorted and immediately settled back into sleep. With an irritated shake of his head, David went to rifle through Sebastien’s bags in search of the memory card before he washed the grime of the whole evening away.

* * *

David sat at the scuffed up table, slowly flipping the memory card between his fingers. How could something so tiny, so utterly _mundane_ be the source of so much pain and destruction? He took another swill of the artisanal, micro-brewed beer that Sebastien, rude bastard that he was, had never actually offered him as he considered the object in his hand. All that heartache in a piece of plastic no larger than a fingernail. And yet…David squeezed his eyes shut, trying in vain to block out the images that flashed inside his head. Seeing himself on the walls of his own goddamn gallery, of having every flaw and insecurity magnified and put on display for the scrutiny of the masses, and all in the name of Sebastien’s _vision._

_“David, your true beauty is that you’re so completely damaged. It’s haunting, really, that you can’t see it. This, all of this, is my gift to you. To let you see yourself through my eyes.”_

Of course, the worst part of it all was that Sebastien was right. Somehow, he had managed to cut through all of David’s walls to know that he _was_ utterly broken. He was damaged goods, and Sebastien recognized it even if he didn’t know David’s deepest, darkest secrets.

Maybe that’s why David had clung to him so desperately, had let himself be used, body and spirit alike, until Sebastien moved on. That illusion of being _seen_ , of being seen fully for the broken monster that he was, and still wanted, somehow, in spite of it.

Alas, in retrospect, David understood that Sebastien wasn’t actually that deep. He was just an opportunistic douche in ratty sweaters who’d become convinced of his own bullshit.

David dropped the memory card into the bottle.


	6. Sebastien. Motherfucking. Raine.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I am not being pathetic. I am not._ Patrick’s internal monologue wasn’t very convincing.
> 
> He clumsily banged the now-empty glass against the scuffed bar, once by accident, then again to signal the bartender. “Another one…please?” So he may be pathetic and wallowing a little, but that’s no excuse for rudeness.
> 
> The day had not improved after he left the cafe. Everywhere he went, people were talking about the stupid photographer in town with the Roses.
> 
> Sebastien. Motherfucking. Raine.
> 
> \--
> 
> Patrick deals with his feelings about Sebastien Raine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, y'all, this chapter is a doozy. But trust me, the payoff is gonna be there, I PROMISE. I'm putting spoiler-y tags in the endnotes, so check there for content warnings and spoilers! 
> 
> NOTE: this is the second chapter I posted today, so make sure you read ch. 5 first!
> 
> Lots of love to NeelyO, unkindravens, and ahurston for the hair pets and dealing with my constant need for validation.

The problem with small towns is that everyone knows everything. Well, in a manner of speaking, that is.

While he waited for his and Ray’s takeout order Thursday morning, Patrick stared down at the placemat on the counter. A quiet smile toyed at the corner of his lips as he idly traced a fingertip along one of the wet rings left by his water glass. Because, small town or no, Patrick was excellent at hiding his true nature. He was careful. He could bide his time, swallow down his urges, allow the flock to go about their miserable little lives, completely oblivious to the wolf hiding in their midst.

Above all else, Patrick was deliberate in his monstrosity. As much as he _wanted_ to pin Ray “Door open or closed?” Butani against the doorframe and slam the door until he crushed the man’s skull, Patrick knew it would be unwise. And so he settled for the fantasy of it, let himself be warmed from within as he imagined how the blood would splatter against the horrible floral wallpaper, how the heady metallic scent of it would permeate his senses. How it would trickle down Ray’s broken face, hot and viscous and so _goddamn_ tempting. Just the thought of it made Patrick’s mouth water.

From somewhere in the distance, the grating sound of Roland Schitt talking to Twyla broke through the daydream, jarring Patrick out of his reverie. Just the godawful sound of his voice—the unholy lovechild of Charlie Brown’s teacher and nails clawing down a chalkboard—made Patrick’s jaw clench. He willed his jaw to relax, brought a hand to his face, and pressed a fingertip to the bridge of his nose in a useless attempt to mitigate the tension before he ended up with a headache. _Just shut up, for fuck’s sake,_ Patrick tried, in vain, to tune out the yammering.

Next time, he’d fantasize about all the ways he could tear out Roland’s tongue.

“—hotshot photographer they knew from New York, apparently.”

Suddenly, tuning out Roland’s voice was the last thing Patrick wanted to do. He ducked his head and went completely still, eager to find out more. The beauty of small towns, after all, is that everyone finds out everything, right?

“Oh, you mean Mr. Raine?” Twyla said. “He came in yesterday. He said my freckles were ‘imperfections that prove the existence of the divine.’ I’m meeting him for a private yoga session at 4:00.”

 _What a douche,_ Patrick scowled at the counter.

“Private yoga, eh?” Roland chuckled, “That guy sure gets around.” Patrick hazarded a glance toward the counter and saw the mayor’s face break out into a wide, smarmy grin. When he noticed Patrick watching, he winked, and Patrick definitely needed a shower after that. “From what I hear, he had a pretty intense _yoga session_ with David last night, if you catch my drift.” All of a sudden, Patrick was struck with an intense desire to rip out Roland’s tongue and then shove it down his throat.

But clearly, Twyla did _not_ catch Roland’s drift. “Oh that’s so wonderful! I’m so glad that David’s still practicing.” She beamed at Roland, and Patrick had to admit, her innocence was endearing. “I’ll see if he wants to join Mr. Raine.”

“No no no, Twy,” Roland explained, “it was more of a horizontal hokey-pokey sort of situation.” He brought his hand up in a loose fist by his face and poked his tongue against the opposite cheek. “You know, hide the salami?” _Yes, he definitely needs to choke on his own goddamn tongue._

Twyla’s smile didn’t fade in the slightest as the recognition swept over her face. “Oooh. Good for David. I know he’s been lonely since everything that happened at the beginning of this season.”

Roland laughed again, and Patrick had to bite down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood to keep himself from rushing over and slamming his face into the heavy old cash register. He squeezed his eyes shut and took in a ragged breath, feeling something tight clenching up inside his chest. His eyes burned behind his eyelids, he realized, from the tears welling up. How can he be this jealous over a man he’s only met _twice?_

“Sorry for the wait, Pat.” George emerged from the kitchen with a bag, “This is on Ray’s tab, you’re all set. Have a good one.”

Patrick swallowed to clear his throat, but his voice was still shaky when he answered. “Thanks, George. See ya later.”

* * *

_I am not being pathetic._ _I am_ not.

Patrick’s internal monologue wasn’t very convincing.

He clumsily banged the now-empty glass against the scuffed bar, once by accident, then again to signal the bartender. “Another one…please?” So he may be pathetic and wallowing a little, but that’s no excuse for rudeness.

The day had not improved after he left the cafe. Everywhere he went, people were talking about the stupid photographer in town with the Roses.

Sebastien. Motherfucking. Raine.

By the time Patrick had finished his errands for Ray, he’d learned more than he ever wanted about David’s stupid New York photographer boyfriend by sheer osmosis. He’d gone out on a photoshoot with Moira Rose the day before, giving everyone plenty of opportunity to gawk and gossip. Ronnie Lee and Gwen’s husband betting on how long he’d be in town when Patrick stopped at Town Hall. The vet with the weird topless ads on the cafe placemats stage whispering about him to one of the singer ladies in the general store. Apparently Twyla wasn’t the only other person Raine had hit on.

 _Poor David._ God, he’d never even met the guy and Patrick hated him. And, if he was being honest with himself, maybe hated David a little, if what he’d overheard from Roland was true.

What did David see in such a smarmy asshole? David deserved better.

When the bartender slid the tumbler across the the smooth wood, Patrick took it with a grateful, weak wrinkle of a smile. “Thanks.” He held the glass up in a clumsy salute and nodded at her as she turned, and then swallowed the amber liquid down in one gulp, loosing a shaky hiss as it burned down his throat.

Stupid Sebastien Raine.

Stupid David Rose.

Patrick let his forehead drop to rest on his forearms where they rested on the sticky wood of the bar, and tried to ignore that stinging behind his eyelids.

Stupid _stupid_ Patrick Brewer.

“You look like you’re having about as good a day as I’ve had.” The body that friendly voice belonged to slid back the stool next Patrick’s and took a seat. He smelled…good, Patrick decided, a bizarrely enticing mix of sandalwood, something else familiar from his mom’s herb garden, and—was that exhaust? Maybe the stranger rode a motorcycle.

“Yeah, another one of these.” Patrick felt the stranger’s arm brush against his as he reached for the glass, “and a Negroni for me, please.”

Patrick lifted his head just enough to peer through bleary eyes at the man seated next to him. A wild mop of unkempt, wavy hair framed a chiseled, stubbled jaw, his plump pink lips curved into a seductive smile… _fuck, he’s gorgeous._ “Uh, thanks,” he managed to sputter out.

“There you are, handsome,” the man purred, and Patrick felt his whole face heat up. “I don’t know about you, but I feel like my day is about to get a lot better.”

* * *

“I just….uh, I don’t _do_ thi—” Patrick’s brain went offline at the drag of teeth against his neck, turning his words into a string of incoherent grunts. He let his head fall back until it knocked against the door, offering up more of his throat for his lover to explore, to possess. Sensory overload. He was overwhelmed with it, with the intensity of it all, the _newness._ He was caged in by the stranger who loomed over him; he felt _small_ and vulnerable and holy _fuck_ was it doing things to him. “ _Fuck_ , _”_ he muttered, suddenly unable to say anything else, “ _oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.”_

“Mmm, so I’m breaking new ground…I like that,” the man mouthed praise into Patrick’s skin, his lips and tongue teasing hot and wet along the column of Patrick’s throat before sinking his teeth into the sensitive juncture of neck and shoulder.

Patrick ran his fingers through a tangle of thick, brown hair, pulling that mouth impossibly closer, and let his hips rock forward. When he felt the hard line of the man’s erection pressing against his own, it was like a jolt of electricity shot through his whole body. He was tingling, an overwhelming need pulsing in crescendo with each press of hips, with each drag of tongue and teeth. He wanted more. He trailed his palms down the man’s back, let his fingernails scrape against the thin fabric of the man’s flowing white shirt, pleased with the muffled sighs and moans the sensation pulled from the mouth still firmly attached to his neck.

“C-can, I—” Patrick started, as he brought the fingers of one hand around to tug at the button of the man’s jeans.

“Anything you want, lover.” The taller man punctuated his assent with a torturously slow roll of his hips that made Patrick gasp. He licked his way back up Patrick’s neck, then dragged his lips against the stubble of Patrick’s jaw, nuzzled the tip of his nose against Patrick’s. “But maybe we should move this over to that monstrosity of a bed first.”

* * *

_No names, gorgeous,_ the beautiful stranger had said after he’d tugged him out the door of the Wobbly Elm. He had backed Patrick against the brick wall, silencing him with the press of a long finger to the center of Patrick’s lips. _Let’s just enjoy the night._ And then they were kissing, rough and messy, until Patrick was panting and desperate for more. So desperate that he was willing to spend money he didn’t have for the chance to get this beautiful man in bed. He could put up with Ray a little longer.

“Welcome to the Schitt’s Creek Motel. How may I assist you.” The slight brunette behind the counter looked at him flatly.

“I’d…uh…I-I’d like a room?” As he thought of the Adonis waiting for him outside, Patrick felt his cheeks flush. He was doing this. He was really _doing_ this.

The woman—Stevie, her red nametag read—cocked her head to the side, peering at him appraisingly. “We don’t rent by the hour, that okay with you?”

Patrick swallowed as the flush spread to the tops of his ears. “Y-yeah, that’s good.”

“You got it. I’ll need a credit card and ID, please.” Patrick dug his wallet out of his back pocket and handed the cards over, and waited as Stevie tapped the ancient keyboard to enter his information. She turned to grab a key dangling from a hook on the wall behind her, and slid it across the counter. It was attached to one of those awkwardly shaped, old fashioned motel fobs, dull gold text faded into little more than impressions in the grubby crimson plastic. _Drop in any mailbox. We guarantee postage._

“You’re in Room 9. Enjoy your stay, Mr. Brewer.”

* * *

One second Patrick felt the back of his knees bump into the bed, the next, he was seated at the edge, breathless with lust as he pulled the man into his lap. He ran his hands up his lover’s thighs and squeezed his hips, digging his fingernails into the threadbare denim of his faded jeans. He thrust his own hips up, seeking more friction for his aching cock, and buried his face against the man’s chest, nibbling and sucking and biting along his clavicle. He wanted to mark up that beautiful body, to tear this man to pieces.

“Top or bottom?” The question was a throaty growl against Patrick’s ear, which must have a direct line to his dick, because _fuck_ did it jump at sound of it. He tried to bite back the whine, but failed rather spectacularly, judging from his partner’s huff of laughter.

“B-b-bottom,” Patrick rasped, surprised at his own admission. Apparently tonight was gonna be full of firsts.

“Oh, lover,” the beautiful man straddling his lap cooed, licking along the shell of Patrick’s ear, “we’re going to have so much fun.” He pushed Patrick down until he was lying on the garish, blood-red sheets, then crawled up Patrick’s body, his hazel eyes gone dark and feral. He captured Patrick’s mouth in a punishing kiss, biting at his lower lip until the coppery taste of blood flooded Patrick’s mouth. When Patrick groaned—whether from pain or pleasure, he wasn’t quite sure—the man forced his tongue into his mouth as if to push the sounds right back down into Patrick’s throat.

_Yes. God, yes. Please. Yes. Fucking take me. Make me beg for it._

Patrick could feel himself losing control, coming undone from the seams, and he wanted it. Wanted to lose himself to the pleasure of the moment, to the gorgeous stranger currently taking ownership of his mouth.

The man rose up to kneel above him, taking that beautiful mouth away and tearing a reedy, desperate whine from Patrick’s throat as he went. Patrick followed him, rising to seated as he chased that mouth, eager for more.

“Shhh, sweetheart.” With a practiced ease, the man reached behind his head and pulled his shirt over his head. “I’m gonna give you what you need.” He tugged Patrick’s blue oxford shirt free from his waistband, then made quick work of unbuttoning it. “Let’s get you out of these clothes, hmmm?”

The rest of their clothes came off in a frenzy of bruising kisses and grabbing hands, and then Patrick was again on his back, staring up into his lover’s lust-blown eyes like the goddamned abyss, and he _wanted._ He ached with wanting. Couldn’t even remember a time when he felt this desperate for it.

Suddenly Patrick’s mind flickered back to Tuesday night, to David Rose. _David._ How his eyes crinkled as he’d looked at Patrick with that soft little half-smile. How Patrick had felt a deeper kind of ache inside as they’d talked. How that ache had turned into something sharper when David had turned him down and run out of the class.

A sharp bite to his nipple pulled Patrick out of his memory, and the sting of teeth was soon replaced with the wet tease of tongue, laving and soothing the bite. “Ah ah ah,” another lick, this time to his other nipple, “come back, my muse. You can pine about your boyfriend later.” Patrick opened his mouth to object, but was silenced with two nimble fingers sliding into his mouth. Before he even realized what he was doing, Patrick was gliding the tip of his tongue between them, hollowing out his cheeks and sucking. “Tonight is about letting go, experiencing the moment. Just you and me.” He mouthed down Patrick’s torso, sucking marks into his chest and stomach. Patrick arched his back in pleasure, writhed under the ministrations of that skillful mouth.

“Fuck, oh _fuck_.” Patrick gasped in pleasure when the man’s chin bumped against the head of his cock, his stubble scraping along the tip causing Patrick’s hips to buck involuntarily. “Please,” he mewled, and tried to angle himself to get close to that mouth. That sinful, delicious, beautiful _mouth_.

“Eager, are we?”

Patrick chewed on his bottom lip as he stared down at the god kneeling between his thighs, rubbing his face against Patrick’s dick and smiling like the cat who ate the canary. “Mmhmm, _please._ ”

“That’s it, beautiful.” The man licked a wet stripe up from the base of his cock to the tip. “Beg for me.”

Patrick reached down and tangled his fingers through that thick wavy hair, so torn between wanting to pull him closer and needing to hold his head and fuck into his mouth that he lay there, stunned in to stillness. “P-please,” he begged—of course he did, he’d do anything to get more of that mouth he needed right the fuck _now_ —“please, suck my dick.” His eyes fluttered closed at the slow drag of that tongue along his shaft, the glide of it across his glans, soft lips surrounding him as he sank into that enveloping wet heat.

Too soon, though, his lover was shaking free of his hands and pulling away, a gossamer thread of saliva trailing from his lips. “Nope,” he exaggerated the “p” as he winked up at Patrick, and for a moment Patrick saw red. He took a shaky breath, and begged again. “Please don’t stop.”

“I’ve got other plans for you.” He lapped up the precome from the tip of Patrick’s cock. This time, Patrick lifted his hips to follow his mouth when he pulled away, only to be pushed back down, rougher than Patrick was used to. “Stay. The Fuck. Down.”

 _Fuck._ Another spurt of precome dribbled from his twitching erection, and it took every ounce of his self-control to keep his hips from bucking up. Patrick fisted the sheets, clenching the oddly scratchy fabric so tightly in his hands that he could feel it start to tear against his nails. He could do this. He could do what he was told.

“O-o-kay.”

“Good boy.”

Patrick whimpered.

“Now do what I tell you, and I’ll make you feel so good.” He started to nose his way down the crease of Patrick’s hip, nibbling and sucking at the sensitive skin until Patrick was babbling for more, then moved to repeat the path on the other side, carefully avoiding all contact with Patrick’s dick.

“Please.” It was barely more than a whisper, but it was all Patrick could manage as he wriggled helplessly underneath the strong arms still pinning him down. But all he got in response was another wolfish smile and a slow, teasing head shake, and then he was being manhandled, two broad palms sliding under his thighs and pushing them up.

“Hold your legs open for me.” Patrick immediately complied, reaching down to hold himself open, hands behind his knees. He’d never felt so exposed, so vulnerable.

_Well, not since that last night with Rachel._

“Stay still. I’ll be right back.”

Patrick watched hungrily as his very own personal sex god sauntered over to the table and rifled through his leather messenger bag. His mouth watered at the sight of the stranger stroking his rock hard cock, thick and pink and glistening at the tip, as he walked back to the bed. He wanted. Holy fucking _god,_ he _wanted._

The man tossed a small bottle and a couple of wrapped condoms onto the bed, then nestled himself at Patrick’s crotch. “Nicely done, my dear.” Patrick preened at the praise, then choked back a gasp at the first slide of tongue against his hole.

Time lost all meaning as Patrick gave himself over to pleasure, to the stranger’s sure tongue and deft fingers working him open and shattering him into a million tiny pieces. The whole world had collapsed down into their bodies on the tacky heart-shaped mattress, to the fingers plunging inside him, twisting and caressing and taunting at his prostate until all he could see was stars, and Patrick was only vaguely aware that the blasphemous litany of grunts and obscenities echoing throughout the room came from his own babbling mouth.

“Fuck me, please. Fuck me _now,_ please. Fuckmefuckmefuckme!”

“As you wish, beautiful,” and then those fingers, that mouth were _gone_ , and Patrick keened at their absence. “Shhhh, it’s okay; I’m right here, baby,” and Patrick was rolling over onto his elbows and knees, his back arching to present his ass to the man behind him. _That’s better,_ Patrick thought as he finally felt the blunt pressure of a condom-wrapped cock at his hole, pushing pushing _pushing_ until it breached the first ring of muscle and _fuck, that’s a dick in my ass_.

“That’s it,” Adonis soothed, his palm sliding up and down Patrick’s spine, “just relax for me. Open up and take it like a good boy.”

“Yes,” Patrick grunted, pushing himself back as hard as he could, “yes. More. Harder. _Please._ ” Strong hands gripped him by the hips, fingernails carving crescents into the pale flesh as his lover gave him what he wanted, pulling out almost completely and then slamming back inside, then pounding into him over and over in a relentless rhythm. Patrick felt his orgasm coiled deep in his gut as that magnificent cock bumped against his prostate, again and again, with almost surgical precision. Soon, he was at the edge, ready to tumble off into the abyss. “‘M gonna….gonna co—” and he was exploding, shuddering as he came, hot and thick, onto the blood-red sheets.

“Fuck, so tight, I’m close, too.” Sex god’s voice was shaky now, his rhythm faltering as Patrick clenched around him, and with a few more thrusts, he was coming, too, pushing as deep into Patrick’s ass as he could get as he emptied himself into the condom.

When he pulled out, Patrick winced—in part at the unpleasant pull at his hole, in part at the prospect of what should happen next—suddenly exhausted at the intensity of his whole day. What was standard protocol here?

“You can stay if you want,” he called out. To the man whose name he didn’t know who had just fucked him. Because it would be rude to make him leave, right?

_Lock it up, Brewer._

He rolled onto his side, grateful the bed was large enough that he could avoid his wet spot, and closed his eyes, already asleep before the man slipped between the sheets and snuggled up behind him.

* * *

Patrick woke with a start to the sound of his own heartbeat pounding behind his eyes. In a strange bed, in a strange room. With a stranger’s arm draped over his hip.

_Shit. It wasn’t a dream._

His mouth felt like he’d gargled crushed glass, his whole body ached; his ass…well, that was new and different. He _did_ ask the guy to be rough. He grimaced in discomfort as he shifted away from the man sleeping next to him. He reached blindly toward the nightstand to check the time on his phone.

3:42 am.

 _Shit._ He wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep with his head throbbing like this. He’d fucking kill for some aspirin right now.

 _Heh._ He’d laugh at his own wit if it didn’t hurt so damn much. He scanned the room, his gaze landing on the bag resting on the table. If he happened to carry lube around in that pack, maybe Adonis had painkillers. It was worth a shot, right?

For a moment, Patrick lay there, contemplating whether or not he should wake the guy up to ask, ultimately landing on letting him sleep it off. They’d both had a lot to drink, after all. And besides, the dude just had his dick in Patrick’s ass; surely he wouldn’t begrudge him a couple aspirin.

Patrick slipped out from between the sheets and padded over to the table. Wallet, phone, and condoms in the small front pocket. Dammit. He opened the main compartment, and his blood ran cold. That’s not the sort of camera your random Elmdale hipster carries around.

He grabbed the wallet.

Sebastien. _Motherfucking._ Raine.

Patrick’s mouth coiled into a snarl. How fucking _dare_ he do that to David?

David deserved better. He deserved so much better.

* * *

When Sebastien Raine woke the next morning, he found himself unable to move, as his hands and feet were bound with hideous fuzzy pink restraints.

“Oh good, you’re up.” Patrick spoke with his customer service voice at the groggy asshole sprawled on the bed. “I was hoping you’d wake up before I left for work.”

Puzzled, Sebastien cocked his head to the side, his brows wrinkled as he sized up his one-night stand in the starkness of daylight. “Yeah. What are we doing with the garish bondage gear, handsome?” A smug grin teased at the corner of his lips, and Patrick wanted to cut those lips off with a grapefruit spoon.

“You don’t deserve David,” Patrick spat.

“David?” Sebastien laughed. He _fucking laughed_ and he _definitely_ needed to suffer for that. “Alas, David Rose and I parted ways for good, this time. Some people,” he tsked, doing his best to shrug in his confinement, “they’re just not worth the effort. You’re welcome to whatever’s left of him, lover. It’s nothing I haven’t already had.”

As he sat there, listening to Sebastien spew that utter bullshit, watching that arrogant smile taunting him from across the room, something _snapped._ Suddenly, all the patience, all the deliberation over the years, none of it mattered. No. All that mattered in the moment was making him suffer. Making the man who used David Rose feel _pain._

Before he let himself think, Patrick was across the room, kneeling above the smug bastard, forearm tucked beneath his chin to restrict the airway. Sebastien struggled at first, of course he struggled, that’s what people _do_ , but soon he stilled into a hypoxic docility.

“Listen, you smug son of a bitch, you’re going to regret you ever hurt him.” Patrick released his hold, and then pressed his lips to Sebastien’s.

“Trust me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilery tags and content warnings here: This chapter contains Patrick/Sebastien smut, which for some reason I fear will be a bigger problem in this fandom than the serial killing. We'll see how it goes.


	7. Keep Your Friends Close...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Very Stevie Chapter. 
> 
> Patrick meets Stevie, and they hit it off. 
> 
> David and Stevie have a canonish conversation about the cute boy from David's cooking class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pay no attention to the additional chapter added in here. Our strong-willed protagonists both decided that they needed to have a Stevie interlude, which bumps up the total chapters to ten. Thanks as always to the lovely NeelyO!

“Hi there,” Patrick gave the dour, flannel-clad desk agent his most charming ’I am normal and everything is fine’ smile. “I was wondering if I could…uh, if it would be possible to…um, extend my stay in room 9?”

The woman cocked her head to the side as she looked up at him. “Aren’t you the guy working for Ray?”

The problem with small towns is that everyone knows _everything_. Patrick swallowed thickly and hoped like hell that his face belied the panic suddenly knotting up in his gut. He grimaced at the recognition, then offered his hand to her. “Guilty. I’m Patrick.”

“Stevie.” She took his hand and gave a firm, confident shake. “It’s nice to meet you,” she began, a wicked twinkle in her eyes, “sober.”

Patrick’s cheeks heated up, his hand scrubbed through the short hair of his scalp unbidden, the way it always did when he got nervous. “Yeah, I guess I got a little out of control last night at the Wobbly Elm.”

Stevie shrugged and let out an audible exhale. “No judgment here,” she gave him a cute little wide-eyed head shake, “if I’d just landed here, I’d be drinking, too. More than I already do, even.” Patrick laughed. He liked her. “So about the room…”

She furrowed her brows, and looked at him. “Does it need to be that room, specifically, or—”

“Yes, that one,” Patrick cut her off before he remembered himself. _Play it cool, Brewer._ “I mean, I’ve already got my stuff there? I wouldn’t really want to pack back up and switch now.” For what felt like an eternity, Patrick watched her, searching the delicate features of her face for signs of suspicion.

“I…uh, well, I probably shouldn’t have rented you that room in the first place,” she said. “It’s sort of…well, it’s more of a storage space, mostly. If I’d realized you were looking for something longer-term last night I wouldn’t have put you in there.”

Patrick lifted an eyebrow in silent question.

“I thought you were just hooking up with someone last night?” She spoke slowly, carefully enunciating each word, like she was trying to explain the alphabet to a 4 year old.

Relief washed over him at the realization. She hadn’t seen him with Sebastien. Letting out the breath that he didn’t realize he’d been holding, Patrick laughed and shook his head. “‘M not that lucky,” he fell easily back into his affable everyman persona, “just too drunk to drive home last night.”

“And now?”

“I forgot how nice it was to wakeup without Ray Butani invading my privacy. And I’d like to do it again.” He flashed her a teasing grin, and she matched it with a smirk of her own.

“I like you,” she declared, and Patrick felt warm inside. “You can stay there; just stay out of the closet, okay?”

“Of course, Stevie. Thank you.” He headed toward the door, but paused before opening it. “One more thing? I kind of left a bit of a mess in there this morning. I’ll take care of it when I get back after work, no need for you to clean.”

“You got it. See ya later.”

“I shouldn’t have eaten those eggs.” David’s stomach churned as he debated whether taking another hit would be wise or just lead to even more poor life choices.

“I tried to stop you,” Stevie reminded him. “But you’re stalling. Answer the question. Was the sex at least good?” Stevie asked.

“Don’t be gross.” David squinted, trying to bring Stevie’s face into focus from where he lay, sprawled out across her bed, his head dangling off the edge. She raised an eyebrow at him from where she sat, legs tucked up beneath her, on the floor across the room.

“And yes, yes it was.” He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed topping, to be honest. It had been…well, David didn’t really care to think about just how long it had been, really, since he was currently staring at the person he’d been with at the time. And they’d definitely moved into a different stage of their relationship, one that had him feeling almost a little bit dirty to think about what they’d done together in the past. Stevie was like a sister to him now. A hot sister with a killer wit and thighs like a vise that he used to fuck. Okay, maybe she was like a stepsister. And maybe he needed to stop thinking about her like that right now.

“That’s my boy!” Stevie collapsed into a fit of giggles, falling onto her side and rolling onto her back, locks of wavy hair flopping across her face as she moved. Her laughter was contagious, and soon David joined her in it, laughing until he was breathless.

“Now are you gonna tell me any more about the cute boy at the cooking class?” Hair still in her face, she gazed up at him with a wicked grin. With all the drama over Sebastien, David had somehow forgotten that he’d told her about Patrick last week. Just told her about it. He definitely hadn’t gushed over the cute straight boy with thighs like tree trunks. He had _not._

“Oh, him,” he started, crinkling up his whole face as he tried, in vain, to mask his utter infatuation. “His name is Patrick, and he’s new in town.”

Sitting up quickly, Stevie slapped the floor so hard she gasped. “Ow!” she shook her hand a couple times, then cradled it against her chest, while David just watched, his brows furrowed in confusion.

“What?” he shook his head, then rolled over onto his stomach when the motion made him dizzy.

“I met him!” Stevie began, her lips slowly curling into a smile, “he checked in last night.”

“Why?” David could feel his face struggling to express too many emotions at once before settling into his default grimace at the thought of Patrick hooking up with someone else. _Shit._

Stevie gave him that _look_ , those stupid beautiful doe eyes all wide in disbelief, and David just couldn’t deal with that right now. “Seriously? You fucked Sebastien not two days ago, and you’re getting your panties in a bunch about _him_ hooking up with someone?”

David flailed his arms in front of him. “I’m…I’m…I don’t even know. It’s pointless.” He sat up on the bed, grabbing a pillow and hugging it close to his chest, as though it would protect him from heartbreak. “I mean, he’s a business major that wears straight legged, mid-range denim. He’s not into me,” he sighed.

Stevie’s smile grew even wider. “I like this for you.”

“Like _what_? There’s nothing to like.” David tossed the pillow at Stevie, but she dodged it easily. He never was good at cricket. He let his head fall to rest in his hands.

“You seem flustered.”

David glared at her.

“I’m not flu—maybe it’s the eggs.” For a moment, Stevie just stared at him smugly, then let her head fall back as she laughed.

“I can’t believe I’m letting you sleep in my bed tonight.” Stevie gingerly got to her feet, then walked to the opposite side of the bed. “Especially after you ate those eggs.” David rolled off the bed and helped her pull down the comforter.

“Thank you, Stevie,” he mumbled.

“Don’t mention it.”


	8. And your enemies closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Underneath an unremarkably affable, denim-clad everyman exterior, Patrick Brewer was a well-organized, deliberate monster. One who liked to plan, one who left absolutely nothing to chance.  
> That is, until he met David Rose.
> 
> \--
> 
> After the rashness of the morning, Patrick contemplates what to do with Sebastien. Cue strategizing and brainstorming, followed by quick action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is a bit late, y'all, but it's hard to focus on writing when there's so much happening in the world these days. A couple of content warnings--there's mention of a fire in this chapter, one that puts animals in peril, but NO ANIMALS ARE HARMED because even serial killer Patrick has hard limits.

Underneath an unremarkably affable, denim-clad everyman exterior, Patrick Brewer was a well-organized, deliberate monster. One who liked to plan, one who left absolutely nothing to chance.

That is, until he met David Rose.

Suddenly, his heretofore monochromatic world was painted in vibrant technicolor; the smells and sounds of the world around him assaulted his senses, leaving him awash in sensation. In _feeling_. Feeling with an intensity he’d never imagined possible.

And it was _glorious._

Well, glorious and a bit impractical, seeing as how all that _feeling_ crap had left him with a one-night stand bound and gagged in a motel room he really shouldn’t be spending money on. This wasn’t the plan.

The workday spread out for eons as Patrick counted down the seconds until he could get back to the motel to clean up the mess he’d left. Rachel had been an _exception_. Loose ends had to be eliminated. This wasn’t the plan.

_Fuck._

There _wasn’t_ a plan to begin with. And _that_ was definitely a problem.

Fortunately, Patrick was a take charge guy, a “think outside the box”creative problem solver. And so, over lunch, he took out a legal pad, and did what he needed to do. Break the problem down into more manageable pieces; brainstorm and map out possible solutions; generate actionable tasks and a tangible timeline to completion.

  * Identify
  * Generate
  * Implement
  * Evaluate



**Step 1: Identify the problem.**

Well, that was pretty clear. The problem was currently naked and tied up in bed at the Schitt’s Creek Motel. And he needed to be eliminated.

Okay, he realized, it was a little more complicated than that. Because, while Sebastien Raine was, most definitely a major problem, Patrick had gone and added another layer of complexity to his tasks by drunkenly fucking the problem. So what if it had been the best sex of his life? Heat flared deep in his gut just thinking about it, about how Sebastien had made him beg for it, about how easy it had been to submit. How good it had felt to submit. _Fuck._

Priorities, Brewer. Deal with your goddamn problem. He stared down blankly at the yellow pad, shocked to see that, in his reverie, he had written a single word in the center of the page, and his hand now drew idle circles around it, as if moving of its own accord.

Patrick felt the heat in his belly expand, fiery tendrils licking up to fill that cavernous emptiness in his chest even as they spread deeper through his core, wrapping around the base of his spine like a coiled snake. He closed his eyes and took in a shuddering breath, just for a moment. Gave himself over to the fantasy, to the prospect of David teasing him and filling him and making him scream, but just for a moment.

_Priorities, Brewer._ He pressed the heel of his hand against the growing bulge beneath his zipper, just enough to relieve a little pressure. There would be time to think of that later. But now? Now e had work to do.

Business before pleasure.

Step 1: ✔️

* * *

**Step 2: Generate possible solutions.**

The solution to his problem was obvious, wasn’t it? Kill the son of a bitch. Kill Sebastien Raine. Granted, things had happened just a _bit_ out of order this time, but the basic premise was still the same. He just had a more abbreviated timeline than he was used to. He could do this. It was just like what he’d done before. Taking out a miserable excuse for humanity and enjoying himself in the process. He could _totally_ do this. Easy as breathing.

Why did this one feel so different?

_Don’t be an idiot, Brewer. You fucked the guy. Of course this one’s gonna be different._

But that wasn’t it, not really. Was it? Absent-mindedly tapping his pen against the desk, Patrick stared at the second line item on his list until the words became meaningless an the blue lines on the page wobbled: 2. KILL him

That’s all he had to do. _KILL_ _him._ _KILL_ _him._ _KILL_ _him._ _KILL_ _him._ _KILL_ _him._ _KILL_ _him._ _KILL_ _him._ Nothing he hadn’t done before. He could do this.

Patrick’s gaze drifted back to the name in the center of the page: _David_

That was the crux of it. _David_.

_“What did you_ do _, Paddy?”_

_“I don’t know you anymore; maybe I never knew you at all.”_

The memory of Rachel’s big brown eyes, glassy and red-rimmed as she closed the door, shutting him out of their apartment—out of her life—forever. The horror in her gaze when she saw through his mask; the terrified _disgust_ that painted her face when she finally recognized him for the monster he was. That stabbing pain in the pit of his belly when he realized that he’d been wrong about her. That she didn’t— _wouldn’t—_ understand him. Ever.

_David_. David deserved so much better than a cheating asshole like Sebastien Raine. He was doing this for David. He was going to make David Rose’s life better by getting rid of this parasite. Sebastien’s death would be his gift to David.

But he’d learned his lesson with Rachel and Chilton. Some gifts are better left as silent offerings, forever unknown to the object of affection.

_This_. Patrick’s mind went dark, shrouded in images of spurting blood and broken bone and sinew. _This is my design._

And above all else, he thought with a fresh determination, David could never know the truth.

_Never._

The clang of an old-timey bell jarred Patrick out of his reverie. Lunch break over. He reached for his phone so that he could silence the alarm. At the sight of the reminder window that popped up on the screen, he smiled. _Perfect._

Step 2: ✔️

* * *

**Step 3: Implement chosen solution.**

The difficulty with this one, Patrick figured, was in the method of execution.

_Heh._

It was a good thing Ray was busy with client meetings in Elmdale, because Patrick’s focus was utterly shot for the rest of the afternoon. Who could focus on locating sources of funding and drafting grant proposals for a…not-for-profit therapeutic sex clinic in Bob’s Garage, _Seriously, Ray_?…when there were murder details to flesh out? That couldn’t be right. Patrick skimmed back over Ray’s notes. Huh. Bob and Gwen Currie, proprietors, Schitt’s Creek Sex Specialists. That…was actually something worth looking into further. But not at the moment.

Patrick slipped that file to the bottom of his stack, momentarily distracted by the wrinkled flyer he found beneath it for a fundraiser for the local animal shelter. He may have ogled the picture of Dr. Miguel for a moment or three before it hit him.

Schitt’s Creek Animal Hospital.

_Perfect._

* * *

The great thing about small towns is that everyone knows everyone. More importantly, everyone _trusts_ everyone. It was surprisingly easy to get what he needed. One call and the veterinarian with killer pecs was out the door, moving in such a rush he didn’t even bother to lock up.

No one gave him a second glance as he walked inside the building, armed with a lock-pick kit he didn’t need and a grocery list honed with surgical precision. No one noticed when he slipped out the back door, arms laden with everything he needed, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning and idly humming the theme song to the _A-Team._ No one noticed, because no one cares what you’re doing when you blend into the white-bread background.

_I love it when a plan comes together._

No. Nobody in the whole town noticed a goddamn thing until he let them.

“911. What’s your emergency?”

“There’s smoke. I think the animal hospital on Wade Street is on fire!”

“Firefighters have been alerted and are on their way. Please stay on the line until they’ve arrived.”

“Of course.” Patrick was nothing if not an obedient citizen. “Please hurry!”

* * *

_I love it when a plan comes together._ Patrick whistled the theme song to the _A-Team_ while he jiggled the key in the stubborn old lock.

“Hi honey, I’m home.” He gave the man laid out on the bed a wolfish grin before setting his box down on the table, and then grabbed the remote and turned on TSN. “Did you miss me?” Sebastien glared at him, his silent rage almost palpable. “Hmm?”

“Oh, that’s right,” Patrick taunted, “it _is_ hard to talk with your mouth full.” He sauntered over to the bed, leaning over to check the knot on the impromptu gag he’d made of Sebastien’s shirt. Still nice and secure, but it could probably be tighter. Just to make it hurt more. “How’s that feel?”

Fire flashed in Sebastien’s eyes as he tugged against his restraints. “Shhh, none of that now,” Patrick whispered into Sebastien’s ear. “You need to save your strength.”

More wiggling. Indecipherable grunting around the fabric gag. Sebastien was pissed off. He _still_ didn’t understand. Patrick needed him to understand. He needed Sebastien to _realize_.

He wanted him scared.

Patrick went back to rummage through the box on the table, then turned to let his prey see what he’d been looking for, tilting the Liston knife to let the light catch on the steel.

Sebastien screamed, rough and garbled around the gag. Patrick laughed.

“We’re going to have so much fun tonight, lover.”


	9. Saturday night's alright for fighting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Closing the door quickly behind him, Johnny walked into the room and sat at the foot of Alexis’ bed. “David.” He uttered, his voice low and dangerous in a way David hadn’t heard in years._
> 
> _The Code._
> 
> _“What?” David’s heart pounded, a fine sheen of sweat spreading across his forehead, and he didn’t understand what his father was doing. He’d followed the rules. For years now, he’d done what Johnny had demanded of him. Why did Johnny want to talk about this here, now? He wiped his hands along the tops of his thighs, seeking out some kind of solace in the feel of cashmere beneath his skin. “Seriously, what?”_
> 
> * * *
> 
> David and Johnny discuss recent events; things intensify in the honeymoon suite. This one gets a little graphic. Content warnings in the end notes, y'all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please remember that this is a work of fiction, and I have a humanities major's understanding of anesthesia and surgery. As much as I strive for realism in my fics, there are limits, y'all. All inaccuracies are because I don't actually know this shit.
> 
> Also, note that the gory murder crackfic has grown another chapter, #sorrynotsorry. It is what it is.
> 
> With this chapter I crossed the 250k word threshold on AO3. Happy tic-writing milestone to me!

_Just fucking come already._ The muffled groans and screams had been going on for god knows how long already, and it was getting really fucking old. He could barely hear Chenille tell Sara, “It’s country, and you look country in it.” David went to turn the volume up louder on the old television, annoyed to find that it was already as loud as it could go.

He reached to remove his phone from the charger, hoping that he could distract himself from the happy couple in the other room with Candy Crush or something, but apparently the universe would rather make him miserable. _Why the fuck hasn’t it been charging?_ He plugged it back into the cable and glared at it, waiting to see the battery charging icon. And waited.

David pulled the nightstand out from the wall and found the problem. The cable dangled off the back of the table, plug nowhere to be found. _Dammit, Alexis._ He flopped back onto his bed and sighed, fully prepared to embrace the misery and wallow for a while.

“Hi there, son.”

 _Fuck._ David lifted his head up to see Johnny standing inside the doorway between their rooms, hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets. He was looking at David as if he were about to explode.

“May I help you?”

“Well….ah, you see,” his father began, sputtering the words out like one of those crappy old sports cars he used to collect, “I just wanted to check in with you to see how you were, you know, doing after everything with your mother and that photographer. She said you might have known him.”

“Oh my god.” David sat up in his bed, unable to decide between rolling his eyes in displeasure or blinking in disbelief, which left him just shaking his head slightly in confusion. “I am _not_ having this conversation with _you._ ”

With those wild Rose brows shooting halfway toward his hairline, Johnny continued to stare at him from the doorway like some sullen, wide-eyed Ghost of Eyebrow Grooming Future that David most certainly did not want to become reality.

Closing the door quickly behind him, Johnny walked into the room and sat at the foot of Alexis’ bed. “David.” He uttered, his voice low and dangerous in a way David hadn’t heard in years.

_The Code._

“What?” David’s heart pounded, a fine sheen of sweat spreading across his forehead, and he didn’t understand what his father was doing. He’d followed the rules. For _years_ now, he’d done what Johnny had demanded of him. Why did Johnny want to talk about this here, _now?_ He wiped his hands along the tops of his thighs, seeking out some kind of solace in the feel of cashmere beneath his skin. “Seriously, _what?"_

“The fire.” Johnny looked at him expectantly, and seriously, what the fuck.

“What fire?”

“David,” the older man sighed, “things like that don’t happen in this town. You have to control yourself.”

David tried to rein in his expression, but knew it was a lost cause. His head wobbled in confusion, frustration. _At least give me shit about things I know I’ve done, Dad._ “Like I said,” he practically spat out, “ _what_ fire?”

“That wasn’t you?” Johnny’s mouth hung open. “Because of the…the photographer thing?”

“Do you really think I’d risk any of _this_ ,” David gestured to his Rick Owens-clad torso, “near a _fire?_ Besides, you can ask Mom. I got the memory card back for her.”

“But…y-your _urges_ ,” Johnny stammered, his voice lowering to a whisper on the last word. And there it was. The question left unspoken lay heavy in the air between them. Because Johnny knew what David was, what David did. He knew it, and now David could see the interrogation for what it was. His father was worried, afraid _for_ him, not _of_ him.

David quirked the corner of his mouth into just the tiniest suggestion of a smile. “I promise, Dad, it wasn’t me. I remember the Code.”

In that moment, Johnny’s whole body relaxed; his face softened and the tension in his limbs dissipated as he crossed the room. “Well, then,” he smiled, and then reached toward David as if to pull him up for a hug but stopped suddenly, letting his hand hang in the air just above David’s shoulder. “That’s…uh, that’s great, son.” Johnny cleared his throat and gave him an awkward pat on the shoulder. “Good to know. I’ll just leave you to it then.”

“Thanks, Dad,” David replied, softly, before shaking it all off. There were limits to how much genuine human emotion he could tolerate, after all, especially when dealing with his father.

David rolled his eyes at the sound of yet another moan coming from the man in the other room.

In retrospect, he probably should’ve sedated Sebastien before he started. Once his prey had realized what was happening, he was just so damn _loud._ It took Patrick forever to set everything up, what with all the grunting and crying.

“You realize I’m not even _doing_ anything to you, don’t you?” he complained crossly as he pulled the dropcloth underneath the blubbering heap on the bed. Sebastien stared at him, wild-eyed, and took a shuddery breath through his nose. Patrick grinned and winked at him. “I mean, not _yet._ ” More screaming.

“For fuck’s sake.” That was enough. Patrick stopped fiddling with the plastic sheeting under Sebastien’s legs and climbed onto the bed, slinging a leg over Sebastien’s body to straddle his hips before leaning over him. “You just never shut up, do you?” He gripped Sebastien’s throat just beneath his chin and squeezed until, at long last, the whimpering stopped.

_Much better._

Step 3: ✔️

* * *

**Step 4: Evaluate the outcome.**

_Who’d have thought the douche would have so much blood in him…_

Maybe he just should’ve killed him outright. Thinking outside the box wasn’t always the best idea. Especially when it came to writhing. Oh the _writhing._ At least Parker had the decency to pass out from shock before he could do much flailing as he bled out.

Sebastien, though? An inconsiderate, writhing, blubbering mess. And that was just from the goddamn _tourniquet._ Apparently, tourniquets hurt. Who knew?

The videos Patrick had watched in his research did not prepare him for that. Thankfully, his grocery trip to Dr. Miguel’s provided enough ketamine to nip that problem in the bud, even if it did mean Sebastien wasn’t awake to appreciate the moment like Patrick had wanted.

Of course, the actual procedure wasn’t nearly as dramatic as he’d been expecting, so maybe it was for the best that Sebastien wasn’t conscious for it. The [Liston knife](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liston_knife) was good for the shock value—it did make Sebastien’s eyes do that hysterical bugging out thing, after all, and that was definitely good for a laugh—but it was nowhere near as effective as the [Gigli saw](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gigli_saw) when it came to the actual cutting. And a stupid piece of wire just doesn’t have the same emotional impact. Worked a hell of a lot faster than the knife, though, and after wasting so much time with the crying and writhing? Well, fast was important.

* * *

Once he’d finished phase one, Patrick dosed Sebastien up with another round of ketamine. Based on what he’d been able to cobble together from his internet research, he guessed he had two hours, at best, before Sebastien woke up, so he knew he had to work fast. After a cursory clean-up of the honeymoon-turned-surgical suite, he grabbed everything he needed, shoved it into his laundry bag, and headed out. The clock was running.

Patrick pulled up to the old cabin just over twenty minutes later, his whole body alight with a nervous tingle. He wasn’t sure why he was so anxious, to be honest. _You’ve got plenty of time_ , he reminded himself. And it’s not like anyone was around, either. People were hardly ever here. Ray had said as muchthe one time he dragged Patrick hunting. His stomach churned a little at the memory of it. It just didn’t feel right, going after innocent elk like that.

He picked the cabin lock with ease and slipped inside. A quick scan of the room turned up what he needed to complete phase two.

 _An hour and a half._ He could do this. He could totally do this. He let the smile spread, wide and wicked, across his face.

_Plenty of time._

Patrick was back at the motel with time to spare, courtesy of the Schitt’s Creek Hunt Club’s insistence on the top of the line one-horsepower Weston Pro Series. It worked even faster than he’d expected, bones and all. He even had time to stop at Ray’s to stow the finished product on his way back. Everything was falling into place perfectly. Now, it was just a matter of time before he could show off the surprise. He took off his shoes and climbed onto the bed next to the unconscious man, flipping through the channels until he found a channel playing _Major League._

“Wild Thing” was blaring from the screen when Sebastien began to rouse, his head rocking from side to side as he tugged against his now-familiar restraints. Once he noticed Sebastien’s movement, Patrick leaned in close, nosing against Sebastien’s cheek. And then he waited for it. The moment of recognition. The horror. The surprise.

Sebastien’s face blanched, his breath coming in rapid-fire pants, tears spilling from those beautiful, glassy eyes. _There it is._ Sebastien lifted his head, weakly, and stared down his body at where the tourniquet remained firmly in place. Saw the bandaged stump just above the space where his right calf used to be. A frantic, desperate howl tore loose from his lips, the sound strangled into an almost pitiful mewl from the gag now shoved deep into his throat.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: amateur surgery and administration of anesthesia, amputation, gore.


	10. Eat the Rude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David and Patrick have a flirty little encounter at cooking class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hi, friends. It's me, the long lost Olive. This fic is not abandoned. It is, however...very slow going these days. Later chapters are done, but I have some pesky _here_ to _there_ bits that have been the bane of my existence for several months.

David was flustered as he scrambled through the community center. He was going to be late for class, and in Schitt’s Creek, being fashionably late just meant more unwanted ogling from the townsfolk. For the hundredth time that hour, David berated himself for losing track of time with Stevie, and contemplated just walking past the kitchen door instead of opening it.

And maybe he would have, if the stupid door hadn’t been open when he got there. And he hadn’t immediately locked eyes with stupid Patrick Brewer and his stupid heart eyes emoji face.

 _Fuck._ Casting a disdainful gaze up toward whatever deity was laughing down at him, David sighed, perhaps a bit too dramatically, as Gwen stopped what she was saying and turned to look at him. “Mr. Rose, are you going to join us, or just watch from the wings?” He glanced over to see Patrick smirking at him, those stupid puppy dog eyes twinkling, and that settled it.

“Sorry,” he muttered, his shoulders slumping as he tried to make himself invisible. Gwen turned back to the class. David rolled his eyes and shook his head, and then slunk toward the empty seat next to Patrick.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show.” Patrick beamed, nudging an Oxford-clad shoulder against David’s. “I’m glad you came.”

“I got caught up back at the motel.” For some reason, he felt compelled to explain himself, and just wished he had a better explanation than “because I got high with my BFF.” Something a guy like Patrick would swoon over, like saving kittens from a burning building, or helping the less fortunate do their taxes or something. David felt his cheeks flush under the heat of Patrick’s gaze, and he had to duck his head down, focusing on the items spread out on the counter before him.

“Oh, _fuck!_ ” David exclaimed, immediately slapping his hand over his mouth at how loud he’d been before covering his whole face with both hands. “Sorry, sorry.” He could see Gwen glaring at him through the cracks between his fingers, and really wished that the ground would just swallow him up.

“What’s the matter, David?” Patrick rested a broad palm on his back between his shoulder blades, and the touch was electrifying, even before the other man started to rub tiny circles along his spine.

“I forgot my supplies for tonight.” David said, miserably. “I really should’ve kept walking.”

The soothing circles on his back stopped, and David immediately regretted speaking.

“Don’t worry about it.” Patrick patted him firmly, definitely bro-style. “I’ve got enough for both of us. We can share.”

“Thank you, Patrick.” The words flew out of his mouth in a low and breathy sigh, racing against the inevitable removal of that warm, solid pressure on his back. Much to David’s surprise, though, Patrick didn’t immediately remove his hand. No, instead, he let it linger, slowly sliding along the plane of David’s scapula before stopping at the top of his shoulder. It was…nice. Comforting, even. David let himself relax into the grounding touch.

“Not a problem,” murmured Patrick. “I’m happy to do it with you.” Patrick’s words hung there between them in awkward silence. David pursed his lips to hide the smirk as he watched Patrick realize the double entendre. He was adorable when he blushed. “Share, I mean. Food. With you, that is.” Patrick jerked his hand away from David’s shoulder so that he could run it along the short hair at the base of his skull, ducking his head down as thought eye contact were his mortal enemy. “So that’s something that I just said. To you.”

David let the grin spread just a smidge wider across his face, then nudged Patrick with a cashmere-clad elbow. Here goes nothing…

“It’s a good thing you’re cute.”

Patrick glanced up through those golden lashes, and David was a goner for thesoft grin toying at the corners of his lips. Utterly fucking _gone_ on a business casual bro.

“It’s a good thing you’re cute.”

 _Holy fucking Christ._ Patrick felt his whole face heating up at David’s words, and tried, in vain, to rein in the dopey smile threatening to split his face open. He hazarded a quick glance up at David’s face, and considered it a huge victory for himself that he didn’t melt into a puddle on the floor right then and there. Because _fuck_. The way David’s face was all smooshed to the left, like he was trying just as hard as Patrick to hold back a smile…something deep in Patrick’s gut did a somersault or three.

“Yeah?” he managed to sputter out.

_Smooth, Brewer._

He chewed idly on his lower lip, eventually working up the nerve to dart another nervous glance up at the gorgeous man working next to him. And double bonus _holy fuck,_ a beautiful dusty pink flush painted David’s cheeks, and Patrick had never wanted to kiss someone as bad as he wanted to kiss David Rose.

“No color, no flavor!” Gwen’s instruction, barked to the class as she walked past David and Patrick’s station, doused the moment in a bucket of ice water. Patrick tried not to laugh at how David started at her voice, those deep brown eyes suddenly wide and skittish, like he was just as surprised to be back in a world full of beginner cooks as Patrick was.

David ducked his head, and—yeah, shy and flustered David was adorable, _fuck_ —asked, “You really don’t mind sharing with me?”

“Not at all, David,” Patrick answered, “come on, let’s get browning.” He bent down to gather his ingredients from the small refrigerator beneath the counter. And if he wiggled his ass a little more than absolutely necessary, just because he knew David was watching? Sue him.

While David began chopping the aromatics, Patrick set to work preparing the meat for the bolognese sauce. And, perhaps if he hadn’t been so distracted by the thrill of David Rose flirting with him, maybe he’d have been a bit more freaked out about it.

If he hadn’t gotten so mesmerized by the knife in David’s large hand, by how he moved it like paintbrush, artfully sliding it through celery and carrots and onions. By imagining this beautiful Adonis of a man wielding that knife like the lethal weapon it was, pushing it through soft skin, puncturing the walls of small intestine or stomach before twisting, jerking the blade up to rip and tear fragile human flesh.

It’s not like he _intended_ to do it like this; it’s not like he intended to do it at all.

It just…happened.

As he watched David work, those thick brows furrowed, the pink tip of his tongue peeking out from his lips in a mask of absolute concentration, Patrick opened up a package of ground Sebastien and dropped it into the pan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very much a slut for validation, so I appreciate any comments or kudos.

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the folks who've lent supportive ears and shoulders over the last few weeks. It's meant the world to me. Thank you. Enjoy this gory murder.


End file.
